


A Study in Patience

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Series: Two Pieces Made Whole [2]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (again...yet), (for now) - Freeform, (not ironstrange), Asphyxiation, BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Collars, Consensual Kink, Consensual Slut Shaming, Consensual Violence, Crossdressing, D&H, Degradation, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dominant Tony Stark, Flogging, Kneeling, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Nipple Clamps, No Sex, Original Tech, Painplay, Past Poor BDSM Etiquette, Past Sexual Assault, Platonic BDSM, Proper BDSM Etiquette, Saint Andrews Cross, Saltires, Sensory Deprivation, Stephen Strange-centric, Subspace, Verbal Humiliation, Waxing, submissive Stephen Strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 20:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: Stephen is fracturing, mentally and emotionally, too overwhelmed from the events surrounding Urthona’s violent arrival on Earth and his subsequent battle with him on Gevaltu, too overwhelmed with the other threats that are looming ever closer, too overwhelmed from the feeling of failure and shame every time he so much as thinks about Wong or Topaz.  He needs his equilibrium back, needs to hit the reset switch, and there’s only one person to go to so he can regain his control: Tony Stark.He just didn’t expect to come to the realisation that not only does he wants to explore past the platonic arrangement with Anthony, he also desperately wantsTony, in every conceivable way he possibly can have.





	A Study in Patience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mokiwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokiwrites/gifts), [2bnallegory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2bnallegory/gifts).

> Here it is, the second instalment of my [Two Piece Made Whole](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098702) series. Best read after the first instalment, but can certainly be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> This was written for the [2019 Marvel Bang](https://marvelbang.tumblr.com/), so a big thank you to the mods for putting this bang on. It was a lot of fun to do, and they were absolutely brilliant with answering my twelve thousand questions and making sure this ran smoothly.
> 
> The art embedded in this fic was done by the wonderfully talented [2bnallegory](https://www.deviantart.com/2bnallegory). I absolutely love this piece, and appreciate all of your hard work. It's absolutely brilliant.
> 
> This fic was beaten into shape by my two glorious betas, [Luca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/profile) and [Marie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/profile). Thank you so fucking much for all of your help (and explaining commas to me lmao), and it would still be a raging rubbish fire if it wasn't for you two lovely souls. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine alone, probably to the mutual frustration of Luca and Marie.
> 
> And this fic is dedicated to [Moki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokiwrites/profile), because this 'verse will always remind me of you.

_One_

Five months, three weeks, six days, and twenty-two hours.

Stephen feels stretched and raw, like he always does when he’s gone too long, but this time it’s deeper than just his base needs – he had been torn from his body, possessed, physically damaged, forced to use black magic, held onto by a mutilated Wong and a traumatised Topaz, and it’s another set of nightmares and traumas piled on top of everything else since becoming a Master and eventually achieving the title of Sorcerer Supreme: Dormammu, Kaecilius, Thanos, Ebora, Mordo...it just goes on and on and on and _on_—

Stephen pulls himself back from his racing thoughts, tries to breathe past the memories and nightmares.

It’s been almost six months and he shouldn’t be this desperate, shouldn’t feel this _need_, but what he’s been through in those six mon—there’s something clawing at his nerves, something oozing and sparking, gouging and tearing and—sleep, there has to be blessed sleep somewhere, sweet oblivion, why won’t it come, why can’t the nightmares just st—fuck, but his mask is cracking into a billion pieces, split at the molecular level and ripped apart by force, and how can one man face all of the death and tragedy and _agony_ without losing his sanity and _why_—

Stephen grits his teeth, takes a deep breath through his nose, lets it whistle through his teeth. He needs to focus, needs to get his shit together, needs to be strong, _needs to be in control_.

Stephen recovers from his ordeal with Urthona in Kamar-Taj. Wong’s in and out; originally, he had been the librarian of the sacred texts, keeping himself occupied while guarding the Ancient One as a servant of the Sorcerer Supreme, but with Stephen in that mantle now, he’s taken up primary residence in the newly restored New York Sanctum because that’s where Stephen resides. Now that Wong has recovered from his own wounds, and with Stephen out of commission (both from his injuries as well as his extended trip to and from Gevaltu), he’s been filling in as the Master of that sanctum, since sorcerers are thin on the ground due to Mordo. Still, Wong seems to find time to visit Kamar-Taj when he can.

Of course, Stephen _hates_ having a servant, especially Wong (who’s like his grumpy older brother combined with a grumpy best friend), but he allows it, because Wong takes his vow to the Sorcerer Supreme very seriously and would be devastated to be relieved of his family’s long-held oath. Stephen doesn’t understand why he needs a servant though; he’s capable of doing his own research and fetch his own tea, and why can’t it be the other way around? Stephen is woefully green in comparison to Wong, he feels most of the time, who’s been studying the mystic arts for longer than Stephen’s been _alive_ (if only by a year). So shouldn’t _Stephen_ be waiting on the much-more-experienced Wong, especially since Stephen’s the Sorcerer Supreme, whose own vow is to serve and protect Earth’s reality and inhabitants? Shouldn’t _he_ be on his knees waiting for instruction, fetching Wong’s tea and reorganising the bookshelves, doing _oh-so-good_ in his tasks so he can be rewarded with—he needs, he needs, he—

_No. Stop it Stephen_, he thinks, jaw aching and teeth grinding, body so tense that his muscles throb and joints creak, nerve-damaged fingers and hands positively shrieking with agony due to his clenched fists.

The medical sorcerers declared him fit for duty other than magical drain, and their order for him to rest was a small, mediocre flicker of relief. However, he’s still stuck in Kamar-Taj, unable to spar, sequestered away with only books and apprentices for companionship, and he clings to that flimsy order, despite knowing that he’s the fucking Sorcerer Supreme, and he has the control and authority to disregard their medical orders so he can jump right back into his duties. It just gives him an abundance of time to think and stew and _drown_, because the only way they could make him listen to sound medical advice is to tie him down, force him to _listen_, force him to _obey_, _force-force-for_—his body yearns, tense and desperate to _release_ this pressure, and his vision is grey around the edges because he can’t force himself to eat, and it’s churning—_I’m not weak_—why can’t he just be _normal_ for once in his wretched life, why can’t he be perfect—why did Topaz and Wong have to be hurt and mutilated by Urthona because Stephen wasn’t _fast_ enough, wasn’t _strong_ enough, it doesn’t matter that Stephen was victorious because they were still hurt and _why is he so fucking weak—_

Stephen picks up his Sling Ring from the bedside table, musters up his feeble magic, and stumbles through the portal.

He’s gasping for air, lungs burning from the strain, but the oxygen is unfulfilling as if he’s floating at thirty-thousand feet without any breathing apparatus. His entire body is shaking and tense, heartbeat racing and erratic in his anxiety and self-loathing, and he can feel the greasy sheen of sweat dotting his hairline and in the creases of his clenched, painful fists. His brain is screaming at him – _failed, couldn’t keep them safe, kept earth safe but couldn’t keep wong and topaz safe, **why are you so abnormal**, i need to sleep, failed, it hurts-it hurts-it hurts, focus, **you’re pathetic Stephen,** don’t want to be in control, failed, **you’re embarrassing me brat why would you let any man have power over you, you fucking freak of nature**, please help me, help me! _– and it won’t stop, it won’t stop, why won’t it _stop_—

He falls to his knees in the centre of Stark’s – _Anthony’s_ – empty workshop and locks his arms behind his back, the simple act of kneeling for his absent Dom enough to keep the remaining shards of his splintered psyche intact.

Stephen _waits_.

* * *

_Two_

A light touch on his cheek startles him awake.

He jerks backwards, shapeless grey joggers and ratty shirt scraping against the concrete he’s laid upon, and he cringes at the sharp twinge of pain as his bare right arm is dragged underneath him. It centres his focus and his wide, wild eyes search out the source of the touch, heart racing madly and frozen with fear. He breaks out into a cold sweat, terrified that it’s a sorcerer who’s come to kill him, that it’s Urthona coming to rip his heart out of his chest in vengeance of his defeat, tear him apar—

“Easy, Stephen,” Anthony says, his voice gentle but muffled, as if he’s underneath the same ocean of fear and need and self-loathing that Stephen is. Stephen focusses as best he can on the gentle touch of Anthony’s hands rubbing into his shuddering, tense shoulders, forcing himself to slow his breaths down to match each knead and stroke. Adrenaline still pumps through Stephen’s veins but the soothing motions are just that, gradually taking away the tension because _Anthony’s here, he’s here, thank the Vishanti he’s here_.

For a long moment, Stephen takes the blessed moment of being safe and surrounded by his Dom, but then he jolts back to awareness, breath catching in his throat and ears burning with mortification. He pushes himself up, torn between running away in humiliation – he can’t believe that he fell asleep on the floor of Anthony’s workshop, what in the _hell_ – and assuming his original position – what kind of submissive is he, showing up in his Dom’s safe space unannounced and not in his proper position – because he needs to do _good_ for Anthony, _be_ good. However, he doesn’t make it far, because Anthony’s hands tighten against Stephen’s shoulders and push him back down, Anthony scooting forward until Stephen can feel a solid thigh against his temple.

“Stay, Stephen,” Anthony demands, fingers moving to his hair and massaging his scalp. Stephen sighs at the clear order and his racing thoughts are muted for the moment, a persistent but quiet buzz in the back of his head due to his base pleasure at following Anthony’s command. He relishes the reprieve, even if it’s not nearly enough, and adjusts himself so he can press his forehead against Anthony’s thigh and dig his aching fingers into fine trousers.

“D’you need me?” Anthony says, and Stephen shudders all over, his eyes prickling from sheer desperation. Fuck, but he just wants it to _stop_, and he feels the tears start as he nods against Anthony’s thigh, small little movements at first before they’re transitioning to frantic jerks. He can hear himself whining in the back of his throat, unable to stop it, and Anthony whispers quiet words that Stephen can’t interpret before one hand leaves his hair, strong fingers wrapping around his wrists.

“Okay, baby, I can do that,” Anthony eventually says, loud and clear enough for Stephen to make out, and he tightens his grip in Stephen’s hair to pull his head back. Stephen’s eyes open, blurry with tears, and meets Anthony’s eyes for the first time, hot with humiliation at his present state. They stare at each other, Anthony reading every minuscule emotion in Stephen’s expression, and then he smiles, soft and comforting and _beautiful_, but eyes glinting with determination and heat.

Stephen exhales shakily, eyes half-mast and fluttering, and finally allows himself to relax, body going boneless next to Anthony’s body.

“Tell me your safewords,” Anthony orders, fingers squeezing Stephen’s wrists.

Stephen swallows his groan, licks his dry lips, and replies dutifully, voice shaking, “’Nebraska’ to stop, ‘aspen’ to slow down, ‘latex’ for a break, green for good, ball drop to slow down, Anthony.”

There’s a pause, no sound except their heavy breathing and the hum of the ventilation system, and then Anthony responds, “Huh. Latex for a break. I like that. I _really_ like that, Stephen.” Stephen can’t stop the wide grin that stretches at his cheeks, and he tries to bow his head but Anthony doesn’t let him, tightening his fingers even more in Stephen’s hair to force him to keep eye contact. “I don’t think so,” Anthony says, and his grin is sharp now, mischievous and bright. “I like seeing your smile, baby, makes me happy.”

Stephen can feel the flush spreading from his ears to his entire face, but the smile refuses to be smothered. The tight feeling in his chest – _satisfaction-did good-pleasure-made him happy_ – is almost overwhelming, and his gaze clouds over with contentment, only Anthony’s face clear and present while the rest of the world goes blurry. The tears are drying, trails of cold moisture slowly disappearing, but his eyes are still sore and swollen, proof that he’s visibly shown his weakness – _weak, disgusting, **men don’t show weakness you pathetic bitch**, it’s only Anthony who’s seen it, he’s safe_ – to another person.

Anthony swallows, throat moving with the force of it, and then murmurs, “Are you injured? Use your words.”

Stephen licks his lips again, Anthony’s eyes following the movement, and rasps, “No Anthony, I—well, yes, I have magical drain, but I’m in peak physical condition.”

Anthony frowns and loosens his grip, eyes taking in every tiny expression as if searching for a lie, but eventually replies easily, “Okay. I can work with that. Stand up.”

Stephen scrambles upright before he even realises that he’s moving, and when he’s standing, his arms immediately clasp behind his back while his head bows. Anthony follows him upwards, and due to Stephen’s eyes being on the ground, all he can see is gunmetal grey trousers (with a damp spot on his left thigh from Stephen’s tears, and fuck he’s pathetic) and matte, dark brown dress shoes. Wherever Anthony was, it had obviously demanded a suit, and Stephen _oh-so-dearly_ wants to look at the rest of the ensemble. His Dom always looks utterly decadent in a suit, and he shudders at the thought of Anthony Dominating him in all those delicious, well-tailored layers.

“FRIDAY will cancel all of my appointments for the next three days, and notify your people that you’re with me on an informational consult,” Anthony says suddenly, stepping forward into Stephen’s space. Stephen tenses at the reminder of Anthony’s all-seeing AI, something that he’s only distantly aware of; he’s only ‘met’ her once, right after the final confrontation with Thanos when he had invited himself to Stark Tower to hash out the...circumstances behind the snap. It had resulted in a lot of yelling on Anthony’s part, and Anthony (_Stark_) had even thrown a coffee mug at his head, still blind with trauma and pain, his newly constructed arm still pink from the growing process due to Extremis. It had been a brief _good day, Doctor Strange_ when he had finally left the tower, and he hasn’t really thought about her since.

But he knows of her, knows of her prowess and her always-observing eye, and Stephen can feel himself spiralling at the mention of her – FRIDAY is everywhere, in the buildings and even embedded in Anthony’s mind due to Extremis, and that means she’s seen Stephen at his lowest points: the spar, the negotiation scene, the _negotiation itself_, is seeing him _right now_, and he can’t—it’s not—why hadn’t he remembered her, it’s a weak point, couldn’t someone hack into or break her like her predecessor, he can’t—

“Breathe, baby. _Breathe.”_

Stephen heaves for breath, skin tingling and lungs burning, eyes wide and unseeing. He feels faint from his panic, and he tries so hard to follow the cadence of Anthony’s repeated commands but he _can’t_, because she’s _seen_ him, seen him _weak_, seen him—

“_Jesus_,” he hears Anthony hiss from far away, muffled from the screaming in Stephen’s head and the blood roaring through his ears, and his frozen, trembling body is tugged forward. Underneath the panic and fear and frigid cold, Stephen can feel Anthony’s solid, warm body against his own, feel the vibration of his chest as he croons words Stephen can’t decipher, feel a strong hand cradle his head to press his face into Anthony’s neck. Stephen shakes and gasps, nose buried in Anthony’s warm neck and open mouth pressing against the smooth fabric of Anthony’s suit jacket, and Anthony’s free hand is wrapping around Stephen so he can grasp Stephen’s arms in a tight, controlling grip.

Stephen’s cradled in Anthony’s arms, unable to move his arms and forcibly buried in Anthony’s neck, and suddenly he feels like he can breathe due to Anthony’s control over Stephen’s body. “There you go, baby, _there_ you go,” he hears Anthony say, voice getting clearer with every syllable. “You’re safe here, I’ve got you. My good boy, there you go, breathe for me baby, nice and slow, there you go...”

Stephen’s knees buckle, lightheaded from his anxiety attack and from Anthony’s words, and Anthony presses his left arm hard into Stephen’s back to support his weight as they fall to their knees, Anthony just a beat slower. The impact is jarring, the bolt of pain through his kneecaps grounding him even more in combination with Anthony’s grip on him. Despite the height difference and Anthony’s split-second delay, his neck isn’t strained from being pushed against Anthony’s shoulder, but his own shoulders overextend from his arms being pushed up towards his neck. It’s only a twinge of discomfort, Stephen flexible enough despite the unnatural angle to withstand the push, but Anthony grunts from his own knees hitting the hard concrete before he’s letting go of Stephen completely. “Fuck,” he hisses, hands going to Stephen’s shoulders and kneading the muscles there, “you alright?”

He tries to pull away but Stephen pushes forward in response, nearly knocking Anthony off-balance, and a thin, almost silent sound of distress rips from his throat against his will. His shaking arms raise, fingers grasping the lapels of Anthony’s jacket as tightly as his painful hands can manage, and he nuzzles his nose deeper into Anthony’s neck. He takes a deep, fortifying breath – spicy aftershave, a hint of sweat, scorched metal; God how Anthony smells – and tries his damndest to pull his pathetic arse back together, trying not to think about how Anthony’s AI is probably watching and recording all of this, trying not to be pulled back down into the spiral of fear and self-loathing and failure. It helps when Anthony doesn’t pull away, arms wrapping around Stephen’s shoulders to crush them together, surrounding him, keeping him whole, keeping him safe.

“Oh God,” Stephen finally croaks, voice practically a rumble and wet-sounding, and he feels the rigidity in his muscles deflate slightly. He sags against Anthony, and whispers shamefully, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Quiet,” Anthony orders, and Stephen’s jaw snaps closed with a click. There’s a long moment where they just breathe in unison, deep and steady and long, and then Anthony asks quietly but with a commanding edge, “Can you stand?”

Stephen swallows thickly, steels himself, and murmurs against satiny fabric, “Yes, Anthony.”

He feels Anthony shudder slightly, and the feeble smile that curves Stephen’s lips is involuntary. He can’t help but feel a small ember of contentment in his chest that, even as insane and nonsensical as he’s been since Anthony’s arrived, Anthony still feels pleasure from something so small.

“Good,” Anthony says warmly, though Stephen can hear the twinge of concern in his tone, and Anthony strokes Stephen’s back once with both hands before gripping Stephen’s hips firmly. “Now, up we go.”

Stephen follows Anthony’s lead, shakily getting to his feet. He tries to control the movement of his legs but can’t manage it; mercifully, Anthony widens his own stance so they’re not knocking knees, and then they’re pressed together upright, Stephen’s face still buried in Anthony’s jacket. Anthony gives him one squeeze of his hips before he pulls back, ignoring Stephen’s small groan of disapproval, but at least his hands don’t leave Stephen, two solid points of connection to tether Stephen with his Dom.

Anthony looks at Stephen for a long moment and then slowly circles him, maintaining contact with his hands; they slide in tandem, one hand sweeping across Stephen’s lower back while the other trails along his lower stomach, and Stephen shivers at the quiet intimacy of it. His brain is still too panicky and over-loud, but even though his prick is still flaccid and unresponsive in his loose grey joggers, the warmth he feels still radiates throughout his entire body, aching fingers twitching at his sides.

Anthony finally stops, hands back on his waist, and he steps close, his shorter form a solid presence behind him. His hands move down, oh so slowly, pressing in, fucking _sliding_ to his narrow hips, the outside swell of his arse, the sides of his thighs. “Arms behind your back baby,” Anthony murmurs lowly behind him, and Stephen obeys the command instantly, eyes fluttering and a soft sigh escaping his lips as he stretches his arms back into position. Anthony gives him a last lingering caress around his thighs, fingers close-close-_close_ to the creases of his groin, and Stephen shudders once again, skin tingling underneath his layers. It’s so _intimate_, something he’s never genuinely experienced before, and he has a nonsensical urge to turn in Anthony’s grasp and push his entire body against his Dom’s, taste his skin and touch every millimetre of that golden skin stretching over his body. It’s a surprising desire and he ruthlessly smothers it, because that’s not what he’s here for, and he shouldn’t _want_ that intimacy in this dynamic. That’s saved for lovers, for collared submissives, for _partners_, and that’s not what this is.

Oh, but he wants. He _wants_, and it’s _terrifying_, because where is it _coming from_?

Anthony grips Stephen’s arms and wrists, his grip strong but easy enough to break, and then he gently pushes forward. Stephen follows his lead and begins walking, and while he’s hesitant and faltering due to being in the dark about their destination, Anthony’s steering is sure and confident, so he’s not worried about bumping into something.

They walk for what feels like ages, leaving the workshop entirely for the corridor that branches off in the opposite direction of the entrance to said workshop. The doors lining the dimly lit corridor are all shut, so he hasn’t an idea what to expect, but he has a thought that these are private quarters. Of course, Anthony has a suite in the main compound of AHQ, just like all the other Avengers, but with the amount of time Anthony spends down here – creating, innovating, _being_ – it just makes sense that he’d have alternative location to rest his head, cook himself something, have a shower, or just decompress with a cup of coffee and a book. Still, Stephen’s nervous; despite the errant, dizzying urge to wrap himself around Anthony like a cat and taste his skin, he still can’t help but feel that edge of ingrained fear that they’re going to a bedroom, that it’s all going to come full circle like some sort of bad joke or vivid nightmare. He’s not scared of Anthony, not in the slightest, and it’s an illogical fear (_why does he still have to be bogged down by the far-distant past, why can’t he just move on, it was a long time ago, get over yourself Stephen_), but it’s still there, black and oily tendrils that have been wrapped around every individual neuron and glial cell in his brain for over twenty fucking years.

They stop in front of a door, and Anthony’s right hand disconnects from Stephen’s arm so he can reach around, unlocking it with a quick flick of his fingers. Stephen’s holding his breath instinctively, but he needn’t have worried because it’s a nondescript room in the general sense: almost workshop-esque with its multitudes of cabinets and tables, a sink and small refrigerator in a corner, machines and toolboxes, couches or chairs off to the sides, and most importantly no bed whatsoever. The biggest deviations from the workshop look are blatantly obvious – there’s a Saint Andrews Cross in the centre of the room (he’s pretty sure he’s never been in a fetish room or dungeon without one), a bondage contraption of metal and leather that’s probably homemade, a few tables with padding that are of different heights, and a sunken shower basin surrounded by glass in another corner with a wardrobe and small table beside it. There are a few other things that Stephen can’t place or recognise, and it certainly makes sense; Anthony is unlike most Dominants, who have to buy commercial products from kink and fetish suppliers or make something by hand with cheap but efficient supplies. Anthony is a billionaire and a mechanic, and he’s always going to make his own toys.

The room itself is large and deceptively mundane looking, despite the freestanding saltire in the middle of the room. It has light grey walls with a subtle texture, high white ceilings with lights bright enough to work safely but not be blinding, and floors that appear to be a dark hardwood at first glance but are in fact puzzle mats à la a martial arts studio. All the metal is matte and steel-grey, the leather a rich brown, and the padding of the tables and sofas are all deep slate with white pillows or accents. It’s very modern and streamlined, and Stephen very much approves of the nonconformity from the usual cliché. Most dungeons or fetish rooms Stephen’s seen are black and deep red, or occasionally black and cobalt blue or purple, but this is very light, airy, and spotless. It’s a total deviation from Stephen’s past traumas associated with play that Stephen exhales in relief (though there’s a tiny portion of him that would still like to pull Anthony to a bed, a part of him that he brutally extinguishes), some of the tension easing in his body.

Anthony must feel or see Stephen deflate somewhat, because he squeezes Stephen’s arms one last time before he removes his hands, breaking their comforting skin-to-skin contact. Stephen feels a brief flash of panic, a whine threatening to break free, but at the sound of the door behind him clicking shut, he forces himself to smother his neediness because he can sense Anthony behind him and he knows that they’re safe here, that Anthony’s not leaving him in this wretched state.

From behind him, Anthony says, “Repeat your safewords.”

Stephen inhales, exhales, and then obeys in a low rumble. Anthony hums in approval, then orders, “Strip down to your skin and walk to the centre of the room.”

Stephen scrambles to obey, eyes focussed on the saltire in the middle of Anthony’s space and mouth flooded with saliva. He had rushed out of Kamar-Taj without shoes or socks, so all he has to do is rip the shirt over his head and slide off his loose joggers and briefs; he folds each item of clothing very carefully, placing them on the floor next to his feet, and when he’s done, he returns his hands to his back and walks as slowly as he possibly can to the space right in front of the saltire, facing it head-on as he breathes with anticipation. Oh, but he _wants_ it, wants to be tied spread-eagle on it as Anthony flogs him red and pink, feeling nothing but the sharp lashes and the bliss of a high.

He’s unashamed of his nakedness – he’s lost a tad bit of muscle mass from his stint in recovery but it’s nothing too profound, and he knows that he has an objectively attractive physique – but there’s still an ember of something akin to insecurity in his chest. He knows that he has nothing to be ashamed of, and despite his recovery he’s kept himself groomed and clean, but his body still carries the scars from his life: battles fought and won as a sorcerer, falls as a boy in Nebraska, mishaps while drunk, the accident that took away his hands, and most vibrantly, the remnants of being submissive. He remembers and is at peace with every single one of his scars, the cuts and burns and scrapes and gouges, some consensual and some not, from battle to rape and everything in between, and he knows that Anthony can read every story Stephen’s body has to tell. Anthony’s no stranger to scars and wounds, after all, and Stephen supposes that that’s the point: Anthony can take in every single aspect of his body and commit it to memory, while also giving him the ability to make sure Stephen didn’t lie about being injured. Still, despite the fact that Anthony knows Stephen’s story _and_ Stephen’s body is something he’s seen in entirety as he’s changed and cleaned him up once before, the odd feeling is still there, and he can’t help but flush from the exposure.

He hears Anthony moving behind him, hears the even breaths and the rummaging in drawers, but then those steps move closer. “Very good,” Anthony says from right behind him, and Stephen shudders at the conflicting emotions that race through his blood. A base part of him purrs at the praise, wants to lean back into the body that’s close, feel Anthony’s warm and calloused fingers pressing into his bare skin, but he hasn’t the permission. Instead, he keeps his posture straight and proper and _good_, trying to make up for his lapse when Anthony had first found him. If he’s good, if he’s _perfect_, then Anthony will punish him on this cross, making every lash count in repentance for his failures.

The other, larger part of him hates it because he hasn’t been good in the slightest. From the events that’ve led him to his current edging to his frankly revolting reactions since Anthony’s arrived (_crying, not being in position when his Dom arrived, not listening and obeying to Anthony’s order to breathe, fuck but he’s useless_), he hasn’t deserved such praise. He deserves to be belittled and chastised, deserves to be reprimanded for his sins and punished for his weaknesses. He hasn’t earnt praise, and he needs Anthony to know that that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here to pay for the mistakes he’s made and to get his fucking head on straight, not to be—

Stephen’s mind goes blank when a blindfold is placed around his eyes, the action unexpected due to Anthony’s silence. The world darkens completely, the soft fabric covering his vision entirely, and his other senses expand in vivid detail. He can feel the cool air on his skin, circulating through the ventilation, causing his nipples to pebble and his hair to stand up all over his body. He can taste the remnants of sleep and the jasmine tea he had had before portalling to New York. He can hear Anthony’s steady breathing and his own slightly elevated inhales and exhales, the creak of something plastic being handled, the hum of the air conditioning. He can smell the slight muskiness of his own sweat and the scent of Anthony’s aftershave, sharp and spicy, and can smell the weirdly distinctive scent of cotton.

“I want you to tell me everything, even the things you might think I already know,” Anthony says lowly, breath rustling the hair at Stephen’s temple. As he speaks, Stephen feels Anthony caress his neck before the newly familiar metal collar goes around his neck, tightening snugly but not too tightly. Stephen can’t help the moan that sounds from his throat but his mind is buzzing with a cocktail of emotions – _need, apprehension, confusion, self-hatred, want, fear, desire_ – and he can’t figure out why Anthony would ask him to do something like that. “I want to know every single detail of your mission out there, every infinitesimal thought that’s in your head, and I will _not_ be happy if you lie or omit details, pet. I want it all, do you understand?”

Stephen’s body is a solid wall of tension, and he doesn’t (_can’t_) reply. What is he even supposed to say to something like that? His brain feels like it’s being pulled in a thousand directions – one flash of _need-to-be-good-and-perfect-for-Anthony_, another of a furious desire to tell Anthony to go fuck himself, another of _oh-god-don’t-make-me-say_, another of needing to remain in control by keeping his issues to himself, another-another-another. His need to submit is warring with his general want to remain in control and keep his failures close-lipped, and it’s agonising, thoughts shrieking and breaths loud in the silence of the playroom.

“I can’t,” he rasps finally, shuddering with panic as he disobeys the order. He rambles on bitingly, _disrespecting his Dom_, “That’s none of your _fucking_ business, I don’t owe you shi—”

The collar tightens, choking off his air and making the arousal flare in his bloodstream, while Anthony’s left hand pulls the blindfold up before grasping a handful of his hair, pushing him down to his knees. The sharp twinge of pain in his kneecaps despite the padded floor makes his jaw drop, but the gasp of air his lungs desire isn’t there, the collar tight and unyielding against his throat, and his prick is filling with blood so fast that it’s almost painful. His heart pounds rapidly, the need for air and the surging arousal almost overwhelming, and then it’s gone, leaving him heaving for oxygen as he tips forward, only Anthony’s hand in his hair keeping him upright.

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to me like that,” Anthony orders roughly, yanking his head back so they can look each other in the eyes, collar digging into his throat but still loose enough to let him breathe. Anthony’s eyes are sharp, blazing, so dizzyingly _beautiful_ that it takes Stephen’s breath away, and he continues in the same hard, commanding voice, “Your safewords are in place for a _reason_, pet, but do _not_ talk to me like that. You are _mine_ in this room and I demand _respect_, do you understand me?”

Stephen gasps, Anthony’s proclamation of ownership like molten metal in his bones, and he stammers, “Yes, Anthony.”

Anthony’s hand in his hair disappears instantly and Stephen’s body sags for a moment before he’s able to regain his shaky stability from his kneeling position. His scalp is tingling and his entire body is shaking from arousal and _need_, and he wants to crawl to Anthony’s feet so he can press his burning hot forehead against the immaculate leather of Anthony’s shoes in apology.

“Now, I’m going to tell you one more time,” Anthony says evenly, with that delicious undercurrent of control intermixed with a soft compassion, and it’s such a juxtaposition that Stephen feels off-kilter trying to determine what Anthony’s thinking and feeling with any clarity. He almost tenderly replaces the blindfold with one hand, shrouding Stephen back into the darkness, and continues, “I want _everything_: the story, the thoughts, the emotions, whatever you’ve got. If you don’t want it, then use your safewords and we’ll talk or move on, but you need to trust that I know what’s best for you, baby. I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

Stephen shakes with dread, wanting _so much_ to keep his problems and issues to himself in some last-ditch effort to keep his control, but he can’t help but remember that this is _Tony Stark_, who tears things apart only to confidently and painstakingly put them back together again. Anthony knows almost everything about him and his past, at least in some detail, and Anthony’s right: he _can’t_ help until he understands the underlying issues, understands why Stephen’s in need of being Dominated right now, and fuck, but Stephen needs it so badly that he can’t possibly stiff-arm Anthony’s instruction. It’s a Dominant’s job to take control, to push boundaries, and none of this will work if Stephen doesn’t willingly open himself up to the trust that he feels for Anthony all the way down to his bone marrow.

He ruthlessly pushes away his desperate, weary, long-worn mask of control and fear, swallows thickly, and whispers, “I trust you.”

“Thank you, baby,” Anthony murmurs with a smile in his voice, Stephen’s half-hard prick throbbing at the praise (even if he doesn’t deserve it, he _doesn’t_) and chest tight at the clear reverence in Anthony’s tone. Then he instructs, “Don’t think, don’t hear. Just speak, Stephen, and make me happy.” At the last word, he fits something over Stephen’s ears, something that feels like noise-cancelling headphones, and the whole world goes silent, the abruptness of it almost echoing inside his eardrums and skull. All he can hear is his heartbeat as even the sounds of his elevated breaths disappear, and he feels adrift without sound and sight. The vertigo at having those senses taken away is swift and jarring, body swaying with the surprise of it, and the only thing that reminds him that he’s present is the feeling of his knees pressed into the soft flooring and the touch of Anthony’s fingers cupping his jaw from behind, stroking and soothing and merciful.

“I don’t—” he says lowly, but even though he can feel his vocal folds and chest vibrating from the words he can’t hear them, and he shudders again, pressing back into Anthony’s touch to tether him to reality. He hesitates, then hums, and then sags once more, the tension utterly bleeding out his shaking body because he _gets_ why Anthony did this. He’s still not comfortable with the order in the slightest, because verbalising fear and failure is hard for him, but being removed from all outside influences, including Anthony’s expressive face, gives him the opportunity to just let it out into a makeshift void, not having to police his speech or hear the evidence of his own weaknesses and failures out loud.

So Stephen talks.

Into the black, soundless surroundings, he tells Anthony everything about the past months’ trials as the Sorcerer Supreme: Topaz and her missing soul fragment, Urthona targeting him to become the Sorcerer Supreme, the near assassination of his person while the Sanctum was being attacked, having to perform black magic, Wong and Topaz being captured while all the Sanctum’s artefacts were stolen, travelling to Gevaltu while Wong and Topaz were tortured, the battle with Urthona and Wong’s mutilation, having to help Wong and Topaz heal from their torture, the magical drain and his own wounds. He tells Anthony everything outside of Urthona as well: hating being kept in Kamar-Taj to heal despite more reports about Mordo and whispers about other-dimensional threats, his irritation about Christine’s new boyfriend who isn’t good enough for that gem of a woman, the stress of dealing with Avengers business on top of all his other duties, his bittersweet attendance at a medical gala that praised his contributions to neurosurgery, the newest version of the Accords he had been required to study and grant approval to, the anniversary of his sister’s death that still hurts so fucking _much_ even after thirty-one years. Then, at the very end, he admits his fears about FRIDAY, about being seen and recorded at his absolute lowest, about her being warped like Ultron or something _worse_ and all of that footage being pushed into the public domain.

He trails off when he’s finished, almost confused when the words run dry. Oddly (but not unexpectedly if he’s honest), he feels like a weight has been lifted off his weary shoulders, though he doesn’t feel _better_, necessarily; it’s more of an empty feeling, rather than something akin to relief, and he doesn’t feel so much pressure in his chest now that everything’s out in the void. He doesn’t want to talk about it – and somehow, he doesn’t think that Anthony will _want_ to, at least not until their scene is over and perhaps not even then – but he is grateful that it’s out of his brain, festering and oily and black as tar.

He slowly comes back to himself, returning from the mindless swirl of memories and failures and fear. He’s parched and boneless, and he knows that the only reason he’s upright is because Anthony’s clearly on his knees as well, stroking Stephen’s hair and arm with one hand and keeping a firm grip round Stephen’s bare waist with the other. He’s also vaguely aware that he’s been crying, though he can’t remember it because he was lost in recollection and couldn’t hear it, but he can feel that the soft blindfold is damp with tears, cold despite his body heat. It must’ve been closer to the beginning, when he had spoken about the ordeal with Urthona rather than the subsequent recollections and fears he had recalled, because his cheeks have the bizarre, itchy feeling of tears that have dried.

He kneels in silence, legs numb and prick hanging soft between his thighs, completely centred for the first time in a while, for what feels like an hour, Anthony’s rough hands still stroking down the bare protrusions of his spine. Right as the silence gets awkward in his own head and he opens his mouth to confirm that he’s done, Anthony’s hands trail up to remove the noise-cancelling device. The sounds seem deafening after so long in silence, even if said sounds are likely unobtrusive, and he flinches at the sensory input. He anticipates the blindfold coming off next, and so he closes his eyes in preparation, which helps when Anthony does remove it, dampening the soft light of the playroom. It’s still jarring and bright after so long in the darkness, bleeding into red behind his eyelids, but it allows his eyes to adjust without blinding himself.

A few long moments pass, Stephen slowly acclimatising to the return of two senses and Anthony guiding his clasped arms from behind his back to his lap. Anthony makes sure that Stephen’s hands are lightly folded on his thighs before he begins kneading Stephen’s aching shoulders in a soothing massage. Stephen opens his eyes around a relieved moan, pupils dilating even further as he takes in the tall Saint Andrews cross and the assortment of other contraptions in this safe space, and just relishes in Anthony rubbing and digging into the remaining knots of strain and tension in Stephen’s shoulders to soothe them away.

As he works, Stephen boneless and relishing Anthony’s affections, Anthony says quietly, _mercifully_, “I won’t address the things you’ve told me right now, and we can re-evaluate at a later time. However, I do want to assure you that from that first spar, all footage was deleted from even backup servers, and FRIDAY’s protocols now dictate that when you enter any of my compounds, businesses, or residences outside of any scheduled appointment or meeting, all cameras and sensors in your vicinity cease their functions. It’s a blind spot in my security, which isn’t exactly ideal, but the security protocols outside of FRIDAY’s surveillance mission is vast and very nearly impenetrable so I’m not too fussed about it. In any case, her passive surveillance functions – magic and heat signatures, pressure indicators, safety protocols, et cetera – are still active, so if we’re in the middle of a scene and she detects something, she will turn back on, but the likelihood of that happening is pretty small. Still, it’s something to be aware of, so make sure your people know that they can’t reach out to you if you’re out-of-pocket, and if you have a way to block tracking and portalling magic, I’d like to have access to it.

“That being said, if you have _any_ reason whatsoever to be in this compound, even if it’s just a quick update on a mission or you need to share intelligence quickly in person, I need you to call ahead, even if it’s just a few seconds in advance. Otherwise, FRIDAY will completely power down her active surveillance functions the second you pop into any of my facilities and residences. I need warning of _any_ off-the-wall visits not related to our arrangement because, as you know, I have to log any and all business matters for oversight purposes and I do not want to have a bureaucratic nightmare on my hands if I miss something. Do you understand?”

Stephen swallows past the dryness of his throat, feeling so much relief that it makes him feel dizzy, and croaks, “Yes, Anthony.”

“Good pet,” Anthony says, then huffs out a soft laugh when Stephen shudders at the praise. His hands leave after a last, lingering caress which feels almost reluctant, and then he says evenly, “Now, I want you nice and pretty and clean, okay? Stand up baby, and follow me.”

Stephen blinks, gives one look of yearning at the saltire, and then inhales as he stands on shaky, numb legs, the world spinning slightly from emotional exhaustion and lingering arousal. The blood immediately begins circulating through his lower extremities and he delights in the uncomfortable, borderline painful tingles that result. He’s coltish on his feet, coordination gone due to relaxation and his abused legs, and he stumbles after Anthony, who’s walking backwards in the direction of the glass-encased shower in the northeast corner of the playroom. Stephen takes the chance to drink in his first coherent sight of Anthony: gunmetal grey suit that is perfectly tailored to his strong frame; the cobalt tie wrapped around that corded neck and so striking against the silky black shirt, glowing slightly from the new arc reactor he’s using to power Extremis and the Bleeding Edge armour; those long feet clad in expensive, dark brown leather; a shining silver watch on his left wrist peeking out from the sleeves held together with blue steel cufflinks; and all of his clothing is just an addition to the absolutely _nonsensically_ handsome face and body it covers. Despite his dehydration, his mouth waters at the vision in front of him and he swallows thickly; his prick visibly twitches with arousal and want, which very obviously catches Anthony’s eye judging by the quick glance, and he prays that Anthony doesn’t read too deeply into it, that he incorrectly assumes that it’s due to the submission rather than the man who demands it.

Though, to be fair, it’s a bit of the former too, but he can’t possibly lie to himself and say that he _doesn’t_ want to wrap his lips around Anthony’s prick and milk it for every drop of come.

The brief flash of doing just that makes his prick twitch again, but he brutally shoves the fleeting fantasy as far down in his mind as he can, focussing on Anthony as they reach the shower. He expects to be ordered to wash but instead Anthony grabs the back of his neck round the collar and physically pushes him towards a long, cushioned table that’s medical in look. A quick glance at the worktops and instruments surrounding the table makes his face flush with mortification even as blood rushes to his prick, because _fuck_, he knows what those are, and _God_, but that means—

“On your back, pet,” Anthony says, and Stephen practically keels over as he rushes to obey.

Laying down on the cushioned table is a relief after so long on his knees, but he’s far from relaxed on it; Stephen’s breaths are practically a pant, sharp and shallow, and a depraved anticipation is swelling in his chest despite the self-loathing clouding his brain. His eyes are blazing into Anthony’s body as his Dom moves about the space, laying out everything he needs onto the worktops on the sides, and every movement is sure and confident like he always is, every iota of energy utilised in streamlined familiarity. It’s enough to force him to swallow constantly, saliva pooling in his mouth, and he almost finds it unnecessary when Anthony reaches into a small icebox, scoops out small ice chips into a plastic blue cup, and hand-feeds him two at a time in between his preparations. Each chip of ice melts in his mouth, cold liquid dripping down his throat, and it’s a blissful thing, especially when Anthony’s heated gaze watches as Stephen wraps his lips around the tips of those fingers, tonguing the chips into his mouth. His prick is like a beacon of heat against his thigh now, arousal singing through his brain and body, and Stephen can’t help when the fantasy returns, imagining putting a very different part of Anthony in his mouth and sucking it dry.

Anthony seems to instinctively know when Stephen’s satiated on water because he tosses the entire cup back into the icebox. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and throws it onto a nearby table absently, flushed in the cheeks and eyes like brands on Stephen’s body, and then undoes the cufflinks so he can roll up his sleeves to his elbows, displaying those strong, golden forearms. Then he applies gloves and once he’s still, he clears his throat before saying hoarsely, “Now, let’s get my pet all nice and smooth for me. Stay still for me, baby, and don’t make a sound. Understand?”

Stephen groans in the back of his throat and nods, half-delirious and already tensing in preparation.

And Anthony begins.

First, it’s the electric shaver, and Stephen’s somewhat surprised when Anthony starts with the hair on his upper body, from the coarse hair under his arms to the softer hair along his sternum and around his nipples and navel, before beginning to trim his leg hair, bypassing Stephen’s erection and heavy balls entirely. Stephen fights the urge to shiver, keeping himself steady and still as ordered, but the knowledge that Anthony’s going to remove _everything_ is both intoxicating and bizarre. He’s never _not_ had body hair, as it’s easier to just maintain and Dorian hadn’t been into waxing or shaving, not to mention that men were supposed to have hair. However, the fact that Anthony’s going to shape his appearance to his liking is _delicious_, is going to stake just one more claim on Stephen’s body that will linger for weeks, and Stephen supposes it’s a good thing that he keeps his pubic hair short and tidy itself, because he’s dripping all over himself now and _fuck_, he’s convinced that this is torture.

Next, it’s the cleansing wipes and powder, and Anthony’s slow and methodical as he wipes skin and hair alike, periodically replacing the wipes with new ones. He stays on Stephen’s chest and underarms, which makes sense – there’s no point wiping him down from head to toe, because then he’d just have to wipe again when he starts sweating involuntarily from the sting and pain. The sprinkling of powder that he puts on Stephen’s body will help with that, of course, but it’s not foolproof.

Once he’s finished with Stephen’s torso, Anthony cups Stephen’s face and strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs. “You ready, baby?” he asks, almost in a croon, and Stephen’s eyes flutter as he nods.

And then Anthony starts the wax. It’s a deep blue that’s opaque when he applies it with the wooden applicator, and it’s soothingly hot against his skin as Anthony puts it on. He smears stripes of it on various parts of his chest and stomach, none of the bits touching, and allows it to harden before he backtracks. One-by-one, starting from the first application site, he edges up a corner before stretching the skin surrounding taut and _pulling_; Stephen has a relatively high pain tolerance, courtesy of his current job profession and his years in the scene, but he still has to force himself not to twitch when particularly tender parts are waxed, such as the hair around his nipples. With every removal, Anthony places another stripe of wax on his skin to replace it, so there’s a constant sensation all over his torso; eventually, Stephen’s manoeuvred to stretch his arms above his head, his underarms receiving the same treatment. The pain is short-lived, a bright flash before it fades quickly into a tender heat, and the pain is lessened even more when he begins going over places where he’s already waxed in order to get hair growing in opposite directions. Nevertheless, with each pull, Stephen feels his prick get harder and wetter, straining outwards from his body.

It’s disgusting and depraved that he gets off on this, and the shame burns in every atom of his body, but his hateful psyche purrs at the pain, at the objectification, at the _ownership_ that Anthony’s cultivating with every pull of hardened wax and every touch of those gloved hands on his heated skin.

When he’s pulled every single possible hair from Stephen’s chest, stomach, and underarms, and rubbed soothing cream on every millimetre of skin while removing sporadic hairs and chunks of leftover wax with tweezers, the process repeats on the fronts of his legs: wipes, powder, wax, soothe with gentle strokes of cool cream, a longer process than the torso just because of the sheer amount of hair growing in all sorts of directions. Anthony works in complete silence except for the moment where he tells Stephen that he’s doing his feet, going ahead when Stephen nods, and Stephen likes that Anthony’s quiet and focussed. It gives him the ability to focus on the bright flashes of pain as well as keep his gaze on Anthony as best he can from his position, because watching Anthony move so confidently with such single-minded attention is intoxicating to witness, particularly in that delicious ensemble he’s wearing.

Finally, though, he orders quietly with a small, secret smile, “On your stomach, baby, and don’t you dare move a muscle after.”

Stephen’s lightheaded and floating but he doesn’t hesitate to obey, though he’s uncoordinated with his movements. His prick is wedged against the leather cushion towards his stomach, the pressure maddening, and he dearly wants to rut against it to get some relief but can’t bear the thought of disobeying an order a second time. It’s a vicious circle because even the truly herculean effort to keep himself still is obeying Anthony’s order and that just heightens the desire, which in turn makes him want to rub against the leather even _more_.

Yes. Definitely torture, and he’s loving every fucking second of it.

Anthony starts from the bottom this time, likely because Stephen has virtually no hair on his back other than a sparse patch in between his shoulder blades and at the base of his spine. He cleans and powders and waxes and soothes, occasionally brushing his gloved fingers along Stephen’s spine or ribs just to see if Stephen will squirm; Stephen doesn’t, though he grits his teeth together and tenses hard to keep from doing so. He bypasses Stephen’s arse and waxes the sparse patches on his back, and finally finishes with a light but thorough massage of his shoulders and the sections of unwaxed back to loosen some of the tension in Stephen’s body.

Then Anthony orders, “Hands and knees, pet.”

Stephen obeys, prick and balls finally free to hang between his thighs. It’s only half-hard now, due to the massage itself being so relaxing, but it twitches at both the order and Anthony’s hum of approval and only grows harder when Anthony begins manhandling him about, making him spread his legs. The brush of the cloth along his balls and crease nearly makes him shiver, arse twitching with the stimulation, and the powder is so light that it’s almost ticklish.

Anthony starts.

Stephen’s never waxed before, not bothered about his neatly trimmed body hair and certainly not anything usually hidden in his pants. Surprisingly though, it’s less painful than his _legs_ were, and more arousing than anything. Stephen’s allowed to move for this one, though not much, because Anthony’s constantly having him spread wider, lean down, hold his stiff prick away from his body. That last one is agony, having to grip his prick – _lightly baby, and don’t you dare pull or squeeze_, Anthony orders softly, and _fuck_ he wants to so badly – while Anthony pulls his balls taut.

It becomes torture when he’s directed onto his back once again, legs propped out in a diamond with the bottoms of his feet pressed against each other. It’s not that it hurts, really – it’s more the fact that Anthony is manhandling him just as much as Stephen himself is, eyes narrowed with concentration and his movements sure, and his face is rather close to Stephen’s body, even breaths wafting over Stephen’s overly hot and tingling skin, gloved fingers flitting over the burn and pulling skin taut. It’s incredibly clinical, a completely non-sexual examination and task, but it’s still intimate in a way, regardless of the...unlikely reasoning.

Anthony backs away and his eyes flick up to Stephen’s face, whisky brown and bright with a kaleidoscope of emotions that Stephen can’t quite read, before he reaches and grasps the small container of cream, asking quietly, “May I? Or would you like to?”

Stephen’s hard, incredibly hard, _nonsensically_ hard, dripping all over red, smooth skin as he pants for air, and he knows for damn sure that if he’s touched, fondled with the slick hands of a man he would’ve chatted up and bedded in a fucking heartbeat in a different life, he’s not going to be able to keep his composure. There’s a tickle in the back of his mind that really just wants to let it happen, but it’s not nearly strong enough to overcome his practicality, even as down as he is. Just because he trusts Anthony more than almost everyone in the universe, and just because Anthony is absolutely his type (in more ways than just physicality, apparently), he’s not that stupid. It’s not—it’s a business transaction, nothing more, _can’t_ be anything more.

It snaps Stephen a little bit out of the fog of desire and submission, mostly because he _still_ doesn’t understand what it is about Ant—what it is about _Tony Stark_ that just...he just doesn’t understand. He’s spent months trying to figure it out, years even, and he still hasn’t come up with a coherent or plausible answer to the question. There’s always been something about the man that had piqued his curiosity and arousal, sure – ridiculously attractive with fancy cars and fancy homes and a different gorgeous person (or three) on his arm every night, living a type of lifestyle that Stephen had coveted with selfish longing back in his neurosurgery years – but it’s gotten more convoluted since Titan. How could it not, when he had lived over fourteen million lives fighting and dying by his side, watching _him_ die, getting to know him in little ways that could’ve resulted in true friendship if Stephen had let it.

Perhaps he should have, if Stephen’s honest. He has always kept _Tony Stark_ at arm’s length, because Stephen had known that Tony needed to be sacrificed to save the universe – even though he hadn’t looked farther than the snap that had saved them all, unable to bear watching Tony die completely after Stephen had essentially set him up for it, and therefore had completely missed the fact that Tony had had Extremis inside his body and ultimately survived because of it – and hadn’t wanted the guilt to completely overwhelm him.

If he had pushed for a friendship, gone out of his way to cement a connection, or if he’d gone even further to see the aftermath of Tony’s snap, would he have seen Tony (_Anthony_) as his Dom, as a close friend, as something _more_? He almost wants to pull away, grab his Sling Ring from his neatly-folded pile of clothes, and portal away to Kamar-Taj to grab the Time Stone so he can blatantly abuse its power and see the answers for himself, but he knows that’s both selfish and impossible at the moment. Even the _thought_ of leaving right now makes his stomach roll with nausea, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh, and he shivers slightly, both from the whirlwind of emotions and the cool air finally registering on his slightly damp skin.

He needs to think but that’s impossible right now, and even though a part of him really wants to say yes, he opens his mouth and whispers, “I’ll do it.”

Tony (_no, it’s Anthony, go back down, let it happen, because the sooner you hit the reset switch the sooner you’ll be able to think_) smiles, clearly unsurprised, and scoops out a dollop with two gloved fingers, transferring it to Stephen’s shaky, slightly damp palms.

“Stand up and get it everywhere, but don’t make a mess of yourself, pet,” he says lightly, turning away as he pulls the gloves off with loud snaps of purple nitrile, tossing them into the bin. Stephen rushes to obey, gritting his teeth as he slicks his newly waxed skin with cream once he’s standing on shaky legs, trying to distract himself from the sensation of slippery friction on his prick and balls. It’s even worse when he coats his crease, fingers sliding against his hole, and his entire body tenses with the urge to slip a finger in and ride it. Still, he hasn’t permission, and with a slow press at his hole, not enough to slip in but there just the same, he forces himself to lock his arms back into position with his eyes on his feet and wait patiently as Anthony finishes cleaning up the station.

Stephen takes stock of his body – slightly damp from perspiration, still hot and tingly from the waxing, prick throbbing and balls heavy between his thighs – as he listens to Anthony wash his hands, wondering what’s next. He’s higher than he was just five minutes ago, but he knows that he’ll likely drop down again just as quickly, because Anthony seems to have a talent for making him drop with the smallest of things. He wonders how everything will feel on newly-waxed, raw skin, wonders what Anthony will even _do_; it’s not like they’ve been doing this long and, despite their negotiation and that first spontaneous scene, Stephen doesn’t really know what Anthony’s really capable of in this setting.

He wonders how rough and violent Anthony can _really_ get before he backs off, and is very much looking forward to finding out.

“You’re all smooth for me, pet, and the cream’s sunken in, so now let’s get you nice and clean for me,” Anthony says, tone light and full of promise, and he suddenly hooks his fingers in the collar that’s still around Stephen’s neck and yanks hard.

Stephen stumbles with a small, choked gasp of surprise and sudden arousal, and allows himself to be dragged to the corner like a marionette on a string, where the glass shower cubicle is set into the floor. He’s pushed in unceremoniously and he turns himself at the last moment, shoulder and arm slamming into the white tiles hard. It’s a flash of sharp pain and he can’t help the loud moan that rips through his vocal folds, nearly falling over as his knees turn to jelly. It’s almost pathetic how being manhandled like an object makes his vision blur, the rush of the drop hitting him like a bloody freight train, and fuck but he’s a depraved sonofabitch.

He hears something that he can’t quite identify through the pounding of blood in his ears and gasps again when the multiple showerheads switch on at once, pelting him with cool water at what seems like every angle. It’s a shock to his overheated body and he cries out in surprise, even though he splutters instantly when water floods his mouth. He shivers from the temperature change and blinks through the spray of water to see Anthony standing just outside the cubicle, intense brown eyes staring into Stephen’s own and looking so goddamn beautiful in his posh suit, the line of his trousers ruined by a sizable, hidden erection.

Stephen’s mouth _waters_.

“Wash up, darling,” Anthony says, voice low but still audible in the midst of all the cascading water, and Stephen rushes to obey, actively feeling himself sinking back down as he lets his Dom take control even as his chest tightens at the endearment.

There are only two bottles in the shower, sitting on the only ledge about chest-high in the corner by the door, and he squints through the spray and his own blurry vision so he can attempt to read the label. He starts with shampoo, and even though a part of him wants to linger (_put on a show_), he’s also desperate to be finished so they can get to the main event, and he finds himself rushing despite being thorough. It’s enough of a distraction, in combination with the fact that the cool water is finally starting to soak into his skin and chill his body down after the wax, that his erection flags, even though the arousal is still heavy in his abdomen.

He moves after he’s rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, standing close to the glass doorway and close enough to touch Anthony if said door was open, which is the only area of the shower cubicle that isn’t being blasted with water. He can’t help but stare directly at Anthony as he squeezes out a generous amount of thick soap that smells like spice and smoke, replacing the bottle on the shelf once he has a good amount; he supposes he’s going to be putting on a show regardless, because there aren’t any flannels or anything to wash himself with, and nowhere to go that isn’t directly in Anthony’s direct line of vision. The idea makes him shiver, and it has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

The body wash is perfunctory for a few seconds as he begins rubbing it over his skin, working it into a lather and making sure he’s removing every trace of sweat and leftover wax as he possibly can with just his hands, but then it changes into a hot, tingling sensation as it soaks into his wet skin. Anthony grins almost instantaneously, likely seeing the surprise on Stephen’s face, and it’s all teeth when Stephen moans involuntarily, blinking heavily despite wanting to clench his eyes shut to savour it. It doesn’t hurt, per se, but it is arousing, and he’d started with his chest, so his nipples are positively _aching_ and his tender skin is flaring with heat. It’s a direct line to his prick, already filling with blood again, and it’s such a contrast in sensation: the tingling of his skin, the heat of his arousal, the cool water against his bare toes, the colder mist of the shower ricocheting off glass and tile onto his flesh, the warmth of Anthony’s intense brown eyes as they stare into his own glasz ones. His body is almost overstimulated with the conflicts of his senses, and his brain feels foggy beyond belief, making it hard to focus on anything but Anthony’s eyes.

He continues to wash.

It flares along his nerves, fills his prick with blood and makes him feel like he’s both heavy and light simultaneously, and this is so odd. It’s not pain or fear, nothing like what he usually drops to, and he doesn’t have the mental capacity to try and dissect it – all he can do is wash his body and stare into Anthony’s eyes, eyes that don’t trail to watch Stephen’s movements but instead read every emotion and reaction in Stephen’s facial expressions. It’s just intoxicating to be the singular focus of that massive, overwhelming force of a man, and all Stephen can think is _never stop looking at me and please don’t let me fall_.

He takes his rigid prick into his hand and slumps against the cold glass, incapable of holding himself upright without assistance. He barely hears his gasps over the sound of cascading water and the blood rushing through his ears, and it takes every iota of will he has to keep himself from mindlessly jerking himself off until he’s shooting all over that door, coating the wet glass with spunk. He wonders what it would look like, looking through the glass and the come into Anthony’s eyes, wonders what Anthony’s expression would be if he did it, wonders if Anthony would gasp and palm his own erection at the sight of Stephen losing it from just this, wonders if Anthony would follow behind.

Wonders what it would look like to open that door and come all over that delicious suit and strong body...

Or what it would look like to see _Anthony_ fall apart instead.

He gasps again, the thought flaring in his brain like a fucking bomb going off, and he can feel the slick, oily precome mixing with the doctored body wash as he drags his shaking fingers up and down his prick, carefully to not pop off without permission, and then gasps again when Anthony steps closer, eyes dark and pupils blown out. His face is flushed and there’s a sheen of sweat along his hairline, barely visible through the wet glass, and Anthony orders in a thick, hoarse voice, “Take it slow, baby, show me how good you can be. Get it nice and clean and sensitive for me.”

Stephen moans, almost a sob, and fondles himself with soapy fingers, pulling at skin and massaging the soap into the root of his prick before he’s sliding back up, gliding over the head. When whatever that additive is finally takes hold, finally registering in his skin, he _does_ let out a sob, and he chokes out desperately, “Please, _please_—”

“Mmm, I don’t think so, darling,” Anthony says, and Stephen would call it teasing if not for the rough, raw quality to his voice. His vision swims, and again he can’t help but think that it would be absolutely glorious to just open the door and climb him like a fucking tree, taste the flavour of his tongue as he pushes Anthony to the ground, feeling that clothed prick grinding against his bare arse. _Fuck_, but he wants, and he physically has to bite his tongue to keep from begging for it, because he’s never asked for that and he won’t do so now.

He doesn’t know how Anthony does this to him, and right now he can’t even muster the energy or mental fortitude to pull out of the mindset to try.

“Farther back, Stephen,” Anthony all but croons, one of his hands touching the glass where Stephen’s chest is neatly pressed against and the other dropping to push into his lower stomach, close to that bulge that’s obscenely tenting the front of his fine trousers. Stephen can’t help but drop his gaze, licking his lips at the sight of that hidden prick and that _hand_, and he hears his Dom continue, “Get it all over, baby, get your balls all clean for me.”

Stephen obeys, choking down his plea – for what he doesn’t even know – and rolling his testicles with unsteady fingers, and fuck, he needs more, so much fucking _more_. He wants to come, unbearably so, but he wants Anthony’s hands, Anthony’s prick, Anthony’s _everything_, and he can hear himself panting like a man starved for oxygen, knees trembling and threatening to buckle under his weight.

He knows he’s clean, the wash fully stimulating his nerves, and he doesn’t wait for permission; instead, he drops his hand and then reaches out, shakily squirting more wash into his palm before rubbing it together for a lather and reaching behind his body with both. He rubs it in slowly, starting with the outside of his hips before slowly working inwards, the tingly fire starting to flare the longer it sets, and he’s not cold anymore, his entire body on fire instead. The glass is cool against his forehead, and he can’t tear his eyes off Anthony’s hand as it lowers even further and _finally_ cups around the stiff line of his hidden erection. Anthony doesn’t make a sound so Stephen does it for him, eyelids fluttering closed around a thin gasp, and then he opens them again so he can stare at it. Anthony’s not pulling or rubbing at it, simply holding onto the length loosely through the fine grey trousers, and Stephen wants him to pull it out, wants to see Anthony just as naked as Stephen is.

Stephen’s never seen his body before – the most skin he’s personally seen on Anthony is his forearms and the dip of his neck, everything else always covered in armour or clothes, though he’s sure there are photos on the internet if he chose to go look. Stephen can only imagine how gorgeous he is bare, all lean muscle and scarred olive skin, dusted with hair and glistening with sweat, hovering on top of him with Stephen’s legs wrapped around his waist. He wonders if he’s cut or not, if he’s tidily groomed or waxed like Stephen now is, how thick his hair is on his legs and chest and under his arms, if his prick is as thick and large as it looks outlined in cloth. He wants to ask Anthony to take off that delicious suit, let Stephen see everything on offer (_even though it’s not on offer, you fucking idiot, don’t be daft_), but that’s not his place; it’s his Dom’s body, and it’s his prerogative on what Stephen is allowed to do and see and touch and feel.

His prick pulses at that, leaking precome onto the tiles beneath his feet.

He dips into his crease, lathering soap, and when the sensation hits the nerve-rich endings of his rim, Stephen’s entire body shudders with desperate tension, knees physically buckling, and the hand holding himself open flies out, slamming against the glass hard in a last-ditch effort to hold himself up. It slides, and he nearly falls over trying to keep his balance even as he massages his hole, wanting-wanting-_wan_—

“I don’t think so, darling,” Anthony rumbles out, voice thick. “You’ll hurt yourself, and that’s my job.”

Stephen’s hole flutters against his finger as he shudders, so fucking hard that he _does_ buckle, and he cries out when his knees hit the tile. He curls into himself, the tile cold against his arse and so goddamn tight with need that all he can do is shake, eyes wide and unseeing at a point on the glass. His prick is jutting out of his body, barely even touching his thigh with how hard it is, and he wants to fondle himself again, wants to pull it until he’s coming undone under the eyes of his Dom.

“Look at you,” Anthony rasps, and Stephen moans again in the back of his throat, sparking with pleasure at how wrecked Anthony sounds just from Stephen. “Can’t even stand up properly because you need it so much. You’re fucking desperate for it, aren’t you?” Stephen chokes on another moan, the arousal flaring white-hot through his veins, and Anthony continues, “Get the fuck up – you’re no use to me shivering on the floor of a shower, pet.”

Stephen lets out a sob and scrambles to obey, crawling back to the main blast of the showerheads because he knows his legs won’t support his weight, and whines when the cool water hits his heated skin, a genuine shock to his prick. He’s so turned on that it doesn’t even wilt in the slightest, and running his hands all over his body to wash off the soap doesn’t help matters. He’s way too close to even contemplate touching himself, even for Anthony’s enjoyment, but mercifully he doesn’t have to; he simply shifts his weight, whining when his prick bounces with his movements against his thigh, and allows the water to sluice down his skin, taking all traces of soap with it.

“Off,” Anthony says when Stephen is rinsed and the cascading water shuts off instantly, leaving Stephen in the centre of the cubicle, shivering and fevered all at once. Water drips down his body, and he tries to muster up the fortitude to stand up, taking big, heaving breaths through his open mouth. “C’mere, baby,” Anthony murmurs, practically a rumble, and Stephen’s heart pounds frantically as he drags himself to the door, which opens with a quick pull by Anthony.

The second Stephen gets within touching distance, Anthony’s hooking his fingers back into Stephen’s collar – he’d almost forgotten it was there, an unobtrusive weight that hadn’t activated once – and pulling him up. One hand snaps to Stephen’s waist to balance his weight, and Stephen gathers every bit of focus he still has to keep himself from falling into Anthony, not wanting to get his suit wet. He manages to keep himself upright despite the lack of strength in his legs, and moans again when Anthony drags him to the wardrobe to the side, a weak and strangled sound from the pressure around his throat.

“Dry off,” Anthony demands, pushing him towards the soft towels folded on a small end table nearby, “because you’re gonna have a hell of a time trying to get all pretty for me with wet skin.”

Stephen leans heavily against the wall as he follows the order, drying from the top down as fast and thoroughly as he can. His hair is probably a wild mess but he doesn’t care; he’s more interested in Anthony rummaging around in the standing wardrobe, pulling out things Stephen can’t quite discern and draping them over his left arm with soft hums in the back of his throat. By the time Stephen’s as dry as he can manage and is letting the cool air dry the remnants of moisture, he feels steadier on his feet, albeit still uncoordinated and dizzy. He folds the towel and lays it gently beside the table before he turns back, and _oh_.

Anthony’s staring at his body, and perhaps he should be wary or frightened by the raw hunger in his eyes but all Stephen can think is _yes, good, yes_ on repeat. His body surges with desire and his mouth waters because _fuck_ Anthony looks edible, and there’s that unwelcome fantasy again, of being on his knees as Anthony fucks Stephen’s mouth like he owns it, precome sharp against his tongue and thick spunk flooding his throat like a claim. _Fuck-fuck-fuck_, he’s fucking losing his mind, and he wants _so fucking much_, and how in the fuck does Anthony _do_ thi—

Anthony steps close, smelling like metal and aftershave and wax and man. “So pretty,” he murmurs, reaching out and dragging one finger down Stephen’s cheekbone before he pulls away entirely and says, “If you want me to wear gloves at any time, safeword for me darling, okay?”

Anthony waits for a moment for Stephen to do so, but there is literally nothing on this planet that would make him ask Anthony to move away from him, to make Anthony put on a layer of material and deny him the touch of those intoxicating, rough hands, so Stephen just nods once, then nods again as he swallows around a mouthful of saliva. Anthony grins, a quick flash of teeth, before it’s replaced by that same hunger from before, teeth biting down on his lower lip before it drags out into a flat line of concentration.

Stephen’s guided into movement as Anthony dresses him, if it could even be called a manner of dress: a thin silver chain that he loops around Stephen’s hips once before linking them closed, like a belly dancer’s jewellery, letting the two ends dangle down; sheer stockings that feel like silk against his smooth, bare legs, held up by black lace garters; equally sheer gloves that are held in place by identical black lace garters on his biceps; nipple clamps that hurt deliciously when they’re put on, the ends from his belt clipped on the ends; thick, strong restraints with matte grey D-rings along them, buckled onto his wrists and ankles and ready to be used; and lastly, with a very obvious amount of perfunctory restraint, a cock-and-ball ring that is made out of a strange material he can’t suss out, and has a nice weight to it. That last bit is the worst, and not because he’s anxious about Anthony touching him; no, it takes an unholy amount of will to keep from thrusting into Anthony’s clinical grip, to keep from begging for _more_.

When Anthony’s done, he runs his fingers through Stephen’s damp hair before suddenly grasping a handful and yanking his head back, Stephen gasping loudly at the sharp pain that radiates along his scalp. “Look at you,” Anthony all but growls, hoarse and sounding like sex personified, moving close enough that Stephen can feel the expensive material of Anthony’s suit just barely brushing the front of his body. It’s just a whisper of sensation against his aching nipples and rigid prick, bare and jutting out from his body, and Stephen groans in the back of his throat as Anthony whispers against his ear, warm breath tickling his skin, “Looking like a fucking treat for me, baby. Makes me so happy to see you like this, all for me, all _mine_.”

The collar contracts around his neck at the last word, called to action by Extremis, and Stephen loses all ability for independent thought, every molecule of his body throbbing at the claim and the intense pressure around his throat. He utterly loses it, a strangled cry ripping from his vocal folds as he falls against Anthony, scalp screaming as his hair is yanked even more, and fuck, but he can _feel_ the hard, damp line of Anthony’s clothed prick against his hip like a brand. He rubs against it thoughtlessly, only wanting _more_, and he can feel as much as hear the rough, desperate moan that vibrates through Anthony.

“I—” he hears Anthony choke out, thin and sounding agonised, and then the collar is loosening up enough for the fingers in his hair to leave and snag the collar once more. Anthony pulls himself away harshly, panting and flushed, and Stephen sways forward in mindless need to be close again even as Anthony hisses breathlessly, “None of that, you precocious little bitch. I know what you need, and it’s not that.”

There’s a bright flash of gratitude that he doesn’t understand in the midst of all the _need-need-please-need_ before it’s gone under the all-encompassing desire for Anthony’s _everything_, and he doesn’t understand why Anthony’s dragging him again, jerking Stephen by the collar (_oh God yes_) and forcing (_yes yes yes_) him to stumble on unsteady legs after his Dom, not letting Stephen please him like he’s meant to be pleased. Isn’t that what he wants? To use Stephen’s body for his own pleasure, to force Stephen to his knees and make him choke on prick, to bend him over so he can take and take and _take_, fucking him with brutal efficiency until he’s filling Stephen’s body with his come until he’s dripping with it? _God_, he wants, he wants it so much, _needs_ it, needs to be good and perfect and wants to be _owned_ by this delicious, unspeakably brilliant, imperfectly perfect man, and _why_ won’t he let—

Stephen registers their destination a split-second before he’s physically shoved against the saltire.

He sobs out a moan, incoherent and desperate and so _relieved_, slumping against the padded centre of the cross as Anthony begins strapping him in. He kicks at Stephen’s ankles with his fine shoes, forcing his legs to spread, and then there are hands jerking him even farther, stretching him wide and leaving him fully exposed. He’s chained in, feet flat against the floor, and then Anthony’s fingers are dragging all the way up his body, nails digging into his skin and leaving trails of fire in their wake. It feels almost wild, like Anthony’s snapped and can’t bear to be teasingly gentle with him anymore – it’s only heat and pain and discomfort now, and Stephen sinks so low into the gentle waves of submission that he’s pleading constantly, jumbled words wet and thick with need.

The saltire hums with energy, tilting downward on silent hinges until he’s almost parallel to the floor, most of his bodyweight set on that rectangular pad in the centre and his prick dangling towards the floor from the lower vee of the cross. Then his left arm is stretched high above his head, probably at the top-most link of the saltire, and then his right arm follows. He’s so uncomfortable, so stretched and exposed, and he sobs with it, prick throbbing in tune with his racing heart and balls tight against his body. He can feel the wet tip of his prick, probably leaking precome all over the floor in a steady drip, and he lets his head dangle into the upper vee, the collar at his neck retracting automatically so he can only feel the dig of its edges into his chin without it cutting off his breathing.

When he’s fully strapped in, the saltire silently moves again, lifting him from the top until he’s not completely upright, but at a slight angle to the floor. Gravity works, extending him even further, and there’s no way to move now, no way to hide or cringe or nudge his body up so he can rake his tender prick into the padded vee of the cross. He’s just at Anthony’s mercy, and his prick twitches into the air, heavy and aching, desperate for friction against his erection and unable to get it unless Anthony touches Stephen himself.

Which, _fuck_.

A finger trails down his back suddenly, starting at the C7 vertebra that juts out of the base of Stephen’s neck and slowly making its way downwards to the L5, right at the cleft of his arse. It makes gooseflesh rise all over his skin, so gentle and almost intimate, but it’s only a precursor to whatever’s coming next. God, he hopes that Anthony’s as rough as Stephen needs him to be, that he isn’t all talk and no action, that he won’t just make his flesh sting but will instead hit hard enough to bruise. Sure, he’d hit Stephen with that rubber belt object during that last scene, but it had been clothed and therefore he hadn’t even had marks when he’d finally dressed the next morning, and even though he hates this part of himself, and even though marks that linger tend to make him go into sub-drop from self-loathing, he still always wants it in the moment, and the idea that _Anthony_ is responsible...

“Let’s get you warmed up, darling,” Anthony says, breath trailing over Stephen’s ear as he leans close, and then there’s a brush of something against the streak of white on his temple – he vaguely wonders if it was a kiss, but surely not, because that’s what lovers and partners do in affection, a soft little touch that isn’t leading to sex – and then nothing.

His ears strain for any and all sounds, trying his damndest to stifle his own panting and thin moans, but there’s nothing, Anthony quiet and focussed on whatever it is behind him. Stephen tries to shift his body, the clamps on his nipples fucking agonising as they’re pressed against the padded mat in the centre, but all it does is twist and stress them, making the pain even brighter. He tries to pull himself away from the pad for relief, which just feeds into the vicious cycle, and he’s so goddamn _hard_ it’s actually painful, prick and balls stressing the thick ring.

Then there’s a whoosh of air, and he cries out in more shock than anything when multiple points on his back light up with sensation. It’s not painful in the slightest, a dull impact without any sting, and _yes-yes-yes_, warm-up, he knows what this is, that’s good, that’s brilliant, it’s just what he fucking needs. “_Please_,” he hears himself beg with a groan, and he vaguely registers a deep, almost mischievous laugh from behind him before the flogger – elk- or deerskin, probably, judging by the lack of pain, and multiple wide straps – strikes again, higher up this time. He jolts, nipples shrieking as he flinches into the cross, and pulls himself away from the pad as much as he can, towards the flogging, towards what’s coming, despite knowing that his involuntary flinch forward will just exacerbate it again.

Anthony hits him over and over again, varying levels of speed and strength behind his strikes, and while it doesn’t hurt, it does warm the skin of his back, legs, and even his arms. That tiny little sliver of sanity left in his head marvels at Anthony’s control with it, especially since he’s self-admittedly out of practise with the whole scene and the tools used, because not a single strap or strike goes wide, not hitting his hands or face despite getting so very close to the body parts in question.

The bigger part of him wants more, _harder_, and he can hear himself begging in between strikes, but Anthony just continues to patiently work him with the deerskin without responding to his pleas. He’s over-hot and sweating now, hands balled into fists and toes curling into air, head so heavy that it hangs helplessly between the crossed beams of the saltire, chin pressed into the dip of his own collarbones as he gasps for breath.

His focus narrows in on the next flash of heat, the feeling of his arms and legs strapped along padded metal, the dig of the saltire’s centre cross into his chest and clamped nipples, the sound of his own thundering heart in his ears, and it’s the reason why he doesn’t even register at first that Anthony’s stopped, skin hot and tingling just slightly, a sensation so lovely but not enough, not nearly enough. He pushes into the saltire in response to the gentle heat, a thin whine ripping through his dry throat as his throbbing nipples shriek in another burst of sharp pain, and even though it fucking hurts, he does it again and again, gritting his teeth as he hisses in short breaths through his nose.

It’s so silent except Stephen’s own gasping breaths and thudding heart, Anthony quiet and still behind him, and part of Stephen wonders if Anthony’s hit his max, if he’s going to stop and do something else now, if he’s planning on taking it lighter in the beginning and work up to the rough bits even though every iota of Stephen’s body is screaming for more-more-more. Fuck, he hopes not, wants to see how hard Anthony can go until he hits his limit, until he hits _Stephen’s_ limit. He wants, no _needs_ to—

He’s pulled back with one calloused hand by the collar despite being tied tightly to the saltire, his inhale cut off entirely with a choking gurgle, and he barely even has time to register the violent flare of arousal before the chain that’s connecting his nipple clamps is grasped and pulled off without mercy. Stephen feels his throat work around a scream from the _pain_ of it, watering eyes rolling back into his head and tight balls throbbing, and he can feel the thread in his mind go taut – _nearly there nearly there oh god please let me go i can’t _breathe_ nearly there please god please!_ – as he suffocates, choking and drooling and trying desperately to rasp in a single gasp of air. His head is pounding from oxygen deprivation and he knows he’s going to go over, so close, so very-very close, and he feels his entire body tense as the orgasm begins to pull at his insides, tightening his abdominal muscles and pooling in his aching balls, and _fuck_ it’s not going to be enough, it’s not—

“Not quite yet, you little whore,” Anthony says into his ear, sounding so far away from the rushing blood in his head, and there’s a tight constriction around the root of his prick (_too tight, too much, fuck it _hurts, _too much_) as he finally goes over the edge, not even able to sob as he seizes and jerks and comes without any semblance of relief.

Everything’s foggy, right on the edge of consciousness and oblivion as his brain begins to slip into darkness, when Anthony suddenly pulls away, letting go of both Stephen’s collar and prick without fanfare. Stephen’s wet eyes fly open as he suddenly pulls in a painful, too-deep breath that rips through his abused throat like salt on an open wound, burning all the way in and viciously agonising when he exhales around a violent cough, saliva dripping down his chin and tears streaming down his face as he tries to regulate his breathing.

A bright flash of sudden agony flares along his upper back, a fast series of loud slaps echoing throughout the room from the hit, and he cries out around a thick sob, body arching into the saltire as far as he can manage in a futile attempt to get away. Then another, this time louder and even harsher, and he deliriously places it as a different flogger as its tails snap across the muscles of his lower back this time, flaring along his nerves like fire.

A hand places itself onto Stephen’s back, rough-skinned and not gentle as Anthony digs the pads of his fingers into the welts, and _oh_, he can _hear_ it, the quick, wet sounds of Anthony pulling at his own prick as he breathes choppily from his own arousal, and the cry that comes out of Stephen’s throat is inhuman. He pushes into the brutal hand that’s digging into his tender skin, moaning shamelessly as he begs through his aching vocal folds and not even knowing what he’s begging for, “_Please_, Anthony, _please_, I—”

His words are choked off when Anthony’s fingers dig in even harder, pulling downwards with his fingernails in a fiery trail of pain, and his Dom all but growls “I’ve got you, baby” before he’s stepping away, the sounds of Anthony’s breathy little groans and the pull of his wet prick all but drowned out as he _goes_.

There’s nothing but pain now, licking down his spine and blazing across his smooth, damp skin. His back, arse, and thighs feel like a single open wound, even though he knows that the flogger probably won’t break skin, and Anthony doesn’t stop, harder and more vicious with each hit and so fucking _good_ that Stephen can’t do anything but cry out and weep and overheat from it all. He can feel the edge coming back up, but this time it’s accompanied by the telling surge of hormones, so goddamn beautiful as it creeps through the agony flaring along his nerves, making his head swim with endorphins even as he suffers and suffers and _suffers_.

A particularly ruthless snap of the flogger along his lower back and arse makes Stephen scream, sharp and echoing, and a loud noise (_something being thrown?_) invades the rush of chemicals in his brain before his balance is being restored as the saltire moves him completely upright, his feet now touching the ground. Almost instantly after he’s done moving, Anthony’s pressed against him, the raw skin of Stephen’s back, legs and arse scraping against expensive fabric and the hair from Anthony’s legs, and _fuck he can feel_—

Stephen jolts with the most vibrant surge of arousal he’s ever experienced and he sobs out a thick, hoarse _yes_, pushing backwards as much as he possibly can, right into the damp circle of Anthony’s hand. He can feel the head of Anthony’s prick pressing against the crease separating his right thigh and arse, and with every quick pull of his prick, Anthony’s tight fist smacks into Stephen’s skin with a dull thud.

“_Please_, Anthony, _please_, touch me, fuck, I’m green, _touch me_, fuck, fuck me, _plea_—” Stephen begs incoherently, wanting-wanting-_needing_, but is cut off when the collar tightens enough to choke off almost all of his air and blood while Anthony arches into Stephen’s shoulder, teeth biting into the muscle hard enough to bruise. A damp hand scratches its way across Stephen’s hip and waist until it’s _on_ him, those calloused fingers gripping hard and tight and pulling in just slightly out of sync with the other hand. Stephen gurgles out a helpless scream at the rough friction in combination with the painful sting of his back, every sensation sparking along his nerves, and everything so bright behind his closed eyelids that he feels like he’s at the edge of a precipice, subspace _right there_, so close he can practically taste the high.

“Fucking _whore_,” Anthony rasps around his mouthful of flesh, practically inaudible and sounding so tortured that it makes Stephen’s balls throb with impending orgasm. It’s coming now, it’s coming now, and fuck yes, he’s Anthony’s whore, he’s Anthony’s, he _belongs_ to him, forever, just like this just like—

“Good pet,” Anthony hisses, licks along the bruise as Stephen croaks out a moan around the tight constriction of his collar, thin and high and oh God he’s talking out loud, isn’t he, he’s saying all of this out loud and fuck he doesn’t even care. All he wants is to come, to fall into the high and wipe the slate clean, and he wants Anthony everywhere, all around him, in every cell of his body, taking everything Stephen has until there’s nothing left but peace.

“You should see yourself, baby,” Anthony says hoarsely, out of breath and hips bucking minutely into Stephen’s body. God, Stephen wants him to rut against his arse, wants to feel every ridge and vein of his prick against his stinging skin, and in the middle of the fog of delirious arousal, he can’t help but want that slick prick to slide inside his body, stuffing him full, fucking into him hard like a claim until there’s oily come dripping down his thighs and soaking into his pores, hole battered and loose and sodden. He wants to reek of Anthony, wants it everywhere and anywhere, wants to know who he belongs to indisputably. Fuck, he _wants_ him, wants him so badly that he very nearly begs for it, wanton and wretched like the slut he is.

“So fucking pretty for me, all black and blue and red for me. You took it so well, so fucking good, and I want to go until you’re nothing but a bruise but I can’t—fuck, I want to _wreck_ you, want you bruised and bleeding and crying out for more, want you so much baby. All for me, begging for me to hurt you, because that’s all you’re good for, bitch, to be my little pain whore, _mine_, my worthless fucking slut to play with and hurt until I’m satisfied.”

“_Yes_,” Stephen moans, voice strangled and heart pounding, balls so tight against his body as his prick is brutally tugged, and he’s right on the brink, brain fuzzy and almost gone, ready-ready-ready to let go. He turns his head to the side, the collar cutting off his air from the strain, and Anthony’s right there, right _there_, half-lidded eyes almost black as they connect to Stephen’s own.

And he can’t help it, doesn’t have the air to ask for permission, doesn’t even _think_, just twists toward Anthony until his wrists and ankles are shrieking from the dig of chains into his fragile skin and his mouth is pressed against those teeth-bitten lips, shoving his tongue inside for a single second and swallowing the surprised gasp that Anthony lets out. Anthony’s hips jerk almost involuntarily, the hand on Stephen’s prick tightening on the upstroke, and there’s the first spurt of come against his arse, hot and thick and painting his skin with each pulse.

Anthony tears his mouth away almost as fast as Stephen had kissed him, the thick lashes around his eyes fluttering as his mouth opens around a soft inhale of surprise, and it’s so _beautiful_, watching Anthony fall apart because of _Stephen_, that everything snaps at once: his entire body tenses painfully and arches in its binds, toes and fingers curling; his balls throb as his own aching prick begins spurting, coating Anthony’s lax fingers with come. His vision whites out when he drops, hard and solid and so goddamn _fast_, and he can vaguely feel his body jerking and shuddering while the chemicals in his brain blossom into something airy and light, the pain in his body all but gone as he sucks in air that’s suddenly slipping down his throat in heaving gasps.

There’s nothing there, nothing but _soft and lovely and light_, and maybe there’s a distant awareness of being tilted towards the ground and shaking hands gliding along his chafed wrists and ankles, of the press of palms slick with something massaging into his back and arse and thighs, of the strength and warmth of Anthony’s arms as he’s carried somewhere that’s soft and comfortable, of the gentle press of wet cloth against his shivering body, of the tickle of liquid slipping down his throat. Maybe it’s just a dream, but if it is, it’s a very good dream, quiet and floating and exhilarating, the blackness of his thoughts and fears gone in the face of this consuming high.

When Anthony pulls away, Stephen manages just enough brainpower to reach out with shaking fingers, whispering into the softness against his face, “_Please. Stay._”

And then everything drifts, airy and beautiful and safe.

* * *

_Three_

Stephen slips into consciousness slowly.

It’s a whirlwind of sensation at first – softness and warmth from the bedding around him, the dull throbs of pain from his entire body, the dry stickiness of his mouth, the hum of the air conditioning and an unfamiliar breathy sound that sounds overly loud in the otherwise quiet room, the heavy lassitude from his natural high that’s makes him feel like he weighs a thousand pounds – before he’s able to steady himself, taking stock of his body and mind with a more critical judgement (and isn’t that a blessed relief, being _able_ to think logically for the first time in more than a month).

His mind feels solid, the tendrils of need nothing more than a whisper in the back of his head, and he feels his eyes burn at the clarity of his thoughts, unencumbered by desperation and fear and self-hatred. He feels _good_, still slightly fuzzy from his chemical high but not at all on the brink of panic, which is his usual disposition after a scene. He doesn’t feel weak or disgusting, doesn’t hear his own twisted psyche berating him for showing weakness to another person. He’s just completely and utterly satisfied, like he’s had a great round of (deliciously kinky) sex and is basking in the afterglow, and that’s fucking remarkable. Just...it’s just fucking remarkable.

He gives himself a moment to soak in this sensation of giddy, humming satisfaction, something he’s _never_ felt after a scene before, before he forces himself to focus on the physical.

He’s definitely sore, without a doubt. Every muscle in his body feels like it’s been beaten with a sledgehammer, which doesn’t jive with a flogging or wax. He dissects it within seconds with his medically-hardwired brain, coming to the conclusion that it’s just the remnants of his mental breakdown and the subsequent scene. He had been tense for so long before fleeing to An—Tony, and had dealt with strain of his strenuous, albeit unorthodox workout during the scene itself immediately after, so it’s pretty easy to assess that his muscles are aching and cramped up because of what he’d put his body through. It’s honestly not unlike how his body feels after a major battle, like he’s gotten his arse kicked and was pushed to complete exhaustion, all the way down to his bone marrow.

His back is throbbing dully, not enough to be painful but certainly distracting. Thinking back, he knows Tony had started with a flogger of soft, widely-cut skin with a high fall count, but the lash of the last flogger had been particularly brutal, thin-cut and probably knotted oiled leather, and certainly with a much lower fall count. Considering how hard Tony’d been laying it, and taking into account that Tony had definitely focussed the vast majority of his hits on the thick muscle of Stephen’s shoulder blades and the line separating his arse and lower back, he wonders how big the bruises are, or if he’d broken the skin. To tentatively test this, Stephen forces his achy body to move and then freezes, not from pain or discomfort but because he finally registers that there’s someone in bed with him.

Stephen’s eyes open, and his lips fall open around a silent, surprised inhale at the sight right in front of him.

Tony’s sleeping on his right side, mouth lax and his eyes darting behind his closed lids from his REM cycle. He looks calm, almost soft in a way, the usual tension around his eyes and mouth absent for once. Stephen registers for the first time that Tony’s arms are loosely curled around Stephen’s left forearm, the muscles in his hands and forearms twitching sporadically as he dreams, and the differences in their skin tones is stark, pale ivory at a direct contrast to the olive brown of Tony’s, made even more vivid by the complete lack of silky dark hair on Stephen’s arms that almost, but not quite, matches the still-present hair on Tony. One of Tony’s legs is tangled in Stephen’s, warm and solid and clad in dark grey flannel pyjamas, which feels rather lovely against Stephen’s smooth skin. Oddly enough, he’s still wearing his black button-up from his posh suit, completely unbuttoned to show his smooth, hairless chest, and the arc reactor is glowing blue in between them, the scarring still brutal even with Extremis’ healing factor.

He’s breathing softly, completely at ease in Stephen’s bed, and he recalls that he’d asked Tony to stay in the midst of his delirious high, but he honestly hadn’t expected Tony to _actually_ stay. It’s not like anyone else ever has, after all, and he wouldn’t have wanted them to anyway. Now, however, all he feels is a warm surge of something indescribable curling through his body, starting in his chest until he can feel it all the way to his toes, in the tips of his ears, hell, even all the way to his hair follicles. It’s probably psychosomatic, sure, but it still takes him by surprise, because he’s only felt that gentle rush of warmth a few times in his life, and only once with someone that wasn’t his blood relation.

Stephen’s so placid and satisfied that any possible rush of panic at this realisation is muted, practically non-existent. Perhaps he’ll panic about it later – in fact, he’s very likely going to, knowing his neuroses – but at the moment all he can feel is a bit of awe, the idea that there’s _something_ there that he hadn’t expected nor predicted when he’d come into this arrangement with Tony. He’s not quite sure what it is, if it’s just inference from the delicious scene or the lingering effects of subspace that he can still feel bleeding into his body, but it doesn’t feel that way. He had felt close to Dorian, had trusted him as much as he had been able to, and he’d experienced inference with him – those brief flashes of _i want you_ and _fuck me hard_ and _don’t ever leave me_ – but it hadn’t felt even remotely like this.

He suddenly recalls that brief moment of clarity, when Tony had asked to rub the cream into the skin around and on his genitals right after the wax, and now that he’s lucid and logical, he can truly think about that moment. He had always wondered if he could’ve had something different with Tony, something bigger than occasional co-workers and passing acquaintances despite their shared traumas, something _more_, and those thoughts just prove that this isn’t inference, that it isn’t just him latching on to a Dominant because of a primal need in his psyche. No, it’s always been deeper than that, always been in the corner of his mind, best left unexplored because Tony had been with Pepper in every single lifetime Stephen had lived through, a universal constant that wasn’t to be ignored, especially with their kid.

But Tony’s _not_ with Pepper anymore, not with anyone as far as Stephen knows, and he can’t help but ponder what it would be like, being in a relationship with him, now that he’s allowed to without feeling guilty.

Probably not much different than now, if he thinks about it, though he figures (hopes) that there’d be a lot of sex – perhaps even a _different_ kind of sex, and oh, but that’s an intoxicating thought – involved. They’d still do their independent things, obviously, since they have different skillsets and areas of responsibility, but if they were...if they were together, there wouldn’t be as many long nights avoiding nightmares by reading medical journals or old spell books, not as many meals alone at his desk in the Sanctum, not nearly as much time masturbating in a harsh and perfunctory manner, only aiming to _get it over with_ so he can sleep or go about his day.

No, it would be long hours of Tony creating and building wondrous things in his workshop while Stephen curled up in a chair surrounded by tomes, drawn-out dinners out at restaurants or even in bed, being able to wake up and touch the warm body next to him when he’s woken up by death and fear in his nightmares, or to sleepily comfort Tony when he inevitably wakes up from his own. Countless hours and days and possibly even _years_ of learning every crevice of Tony’s soul and mind, baring his own in return, a monumental thing he’s only attempted with Christine (and with only moderate success). With Tony, there’s so much connecting them, even outside of their highly compatible dynamics, and more than most people in this world, there is no one on this planet who has sacrificed so much and so often like Tony has, like _Stephen_ has, and there’s something very humbling in that, finding a person who can truly empathise with him and knowing that he’ll be able to feel and display empathy to Tony in return.

They’re so incredibly similar, a large part of that being the reasoning behind their blossoming friendship now that they’ve connected via this arrangement. The potential had always been there, of course, but Stephen hadn’t allowed it to materialise in _any_ of his lifetimes before the battle had happened, and he had been fracturing with need soon after that, unable to piece together enough coherent thought outside of his overwhelming responsibilities and competing priorities. After Tony had all but spontaneously dropped him into subspace during that negotiation scene, that intense first time together, he had felt so damn good that he’d been able to take back some of his previously-delegated tasks again, popping by the Tower with reports or debriefs and at ease with his life. That had ultimately led to the two of them hitting it off in a professional sense, and then that had blown past professional into a pretty solid friendship, the two of them playing off each other almost as effortlessly as Tony does with Rhodey. Hell, Rhodey’s even started in on him, and Stephen’s always invited to the Tower by the Avengers, Tony included, when he’s not in another reality or dimension kicking arse.

This feeling in Stephen’s body, radiating out with gentle warmth, feels like that close friendship, except for the fact that he wants to press himself close, bury himself in those strong, capable arms, and just _breathe_, lips pressed just slightly against the warm skin of Tony’s neck and taking in the scent of him like he’ll never get another chance.

Stephen reaches out with his shaking, scarred fingers, forearm still trapped in Tony’s light hold, and manages to brush the pads of his fingers along the smooth, warm skin of Tony’s clavicle before he presses his palm against the reactor, feeling the hum of its electricity buzzing just slightly into his skin.

Fuck, but he’s going to end up falling in love with this man, and even suspects that he’s already halfway there, if not more. How can he not be, when they’re so compatible in their personal lives, both in ‘bed’ and out, and when Tony Stark is quite possibly the most physically and mentally attractive man Stephen’s ever met in his life?

Stephen inhales and exhales slowly, before he allows himself the selfish pleasure of turning to his own side and tangling his legs with Tony’s, pressing as close as he can without waking his bed-partner.

—

The next time he wakes up, it’s to lazy fingers almost absently stroking through his hair.

He blearily opens his eyes to squint at the offending individual, quite cross that he’s awake in the first place even though it does feel pretty nice. He’d prefer to sleep for another twelve years, if he’s honest, and it’s a wretched thing to wake up from his warm cocoon of skin and bedclothes and body heat, but it hits him that that’s not easy to do, because he’s pressed against a very warm expanse of bare pectoral muscles, lips just barely brushing the scarred ridge surrounding the glowing reactor. He’s positively draped over Tony, trapping him beneath his body weight and clinging extremities, and even though he’s never been much of a cuddler according to Christine, he’s apparently a fucking _leech_ when he’s in bed with Tony Stark.

Then he registers the half-hard prick pressed against his lower stomach and the thrum of heat in his own unbearably hard one, and feels his face flush with a mixture of heady arousal and embarrassment.

“Oh,” he hears himself say faintly, voice hoarse with sleep and the slightly painful remnant of the asphyxiation but mercifully lacking any indication of his internal emotions.

Tony lets out a rumble of a laugh, sounding just as tired and worn out as Stephen does. Stephen’s cheek, pressed against that sleep-warm skin, vibrates from it, and he almost presses an absentminded kiss against the flesh before he stops himself at the last second, berating himself for almost doing something not agreed to. Then Tony breaks Stephen out of his internal admonishment, saying in a sleep-rough murmur that vibrates even more into Stephen’s cheek, “Good...actually, I don’t know what day it is, let alone what time it is, so good morning it is. How’re you feeling?”

There’s something off about his tone, something very different from the thin arousal he’s heard in the past. Stephen summons up every bit of alertness he can manage (mixed in with a hell of a lot of mental willpower, because he really doesn’t want to move away in the slightest) and pulls away, untangling their legs and determinedly ignoring the erection that’s demanding attention. He hears a slight intake of breath from Tony as his thigh drags along Tony’s half-hard prick, but otherwise Tony doesn’t make any indication that Stephen’s unintentionally teasing him (even though every bit of him _wants_ to tease, and is completely okay with that thought), allowing Stephen to manoeuvre his body until they’re untangled again, Stephen laying on his left side and Tony pushing himself over until he’s on his right.

He’s very close though, and Stephen can count every individual eyelash surrounding those sleepy eyes, every grain of hair on his face, including the stubble that’s darkening his jaw. Again, he soaks in that handsome face, every soft line and the wrinkles that were somewhat tightened by Extremis (and possibly the attentions of a dermatologist), before he internally shakes himself out of his blatant appreciation to take stock of his body once again, not wanting to be untruthful.

He feels about the same physically – the same soreness all over, the same throbbing and stinging in his back – but the remnants of his chemical high are completely gone now, leaving him level-headed and completely in control. He also still feels satisfied, despite his raging prick and the fading hum of embarrassment from his clinginess, which brings a smile to his face, pulling at his lips crookedly. “Good,” he replies honestly through his aching throat, willing Tony to read it in every micro-expression in his expression. “It’s...surprising.”

Tony frowns slightly. “Surprising?” he questions, eyes looking more alert as they dart around Stephen’s features, definitely reading him with his uncanny perception.

Stephen pauses for a second to get his thoughts in order, and then admits out loud the same thing that he’d registered the first time he’d woken up: “Every time I’ve ever woken up after, every single time since I was sixteen and trying it out, I’ve always been in sub-drop. Hell, I dropped after we finished negotiating that first time.” Tony’s eyes widen in alarm, mouth opening to speak, but Stephen doesn’t give him the opportunity to interject, continuing with an audible tone of genuine awe in his voice, “This is the first time in over thirty years I haven’t. It’s _beautiful_. There’s no listlessness or screaming in my head telling me how weak I am, no urge to hurt myself afterwards. Is this how everyone else feels after, how I’m meant to feel? Is it supposed to feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be?”

Tony swallows hard, judging by the strain of his throat, and he rubs at his face with his left hand for a moment before he drops it to the bedding between them, hesitating for a second before his warm palm settles on Stephen’s right wrist, stroking the angry abrasions that’ve scabbed on his skin. “Yes,” he says, sounding rather rough, and he clears his throat before adding, “I’m glad. I didn’t...know if you would drop. I thought you would, actually, and you still might.”

“Why would you think that?” Stephen asks, not bothering to mask the confusion in his voice.

Tony sighs and says, “I guess it’s time to debrief. You feeling up to it?”

“Yes, now answer the question,” Stephen shoots back, feeling strong and level, more than able to hold his own. He’s not entirely sure what this is about, but he’s damn well going to have an opinion now, that’s for sure.

Tony barks out a laugh at the demand. “Yeah,” he says with a crooked grin, “you’re clearly feeling better. Giving me attitude and everything, aren’t you sweetheart?”

Stephen’s hard prick, which he’d nearly forgotten about honestly, throbs with arousal at the teasing but he refuses to give it any mind, forcing his brain to focus on the conversation itself rather than his libido. Still, it’s actually rather uncomfortable now, and he hesitates for a split second before he decides that it’s rather pointless and redundant to feel any sort of proper shame, since they’ve gotten off with each other now and it’s not as if Tony’s not halfway to hard himself. So he drops his hand in his own pyjama bottoms – covered in the chibi faces of the Fellowship of the Ring this time, and he almost wants to roll his eyes – and shoves his hand inside so he can readjust himself with a few delicious manoeuvres, his prick wet and pulsing as he angles it to his waistband.

“Yes, I am. Problem?” he drawls as he works, ignoring Tony’s snort of amusement at the blatant adjustment mixed with the no-nonsense tone.

“Nope,” Tony replies with a grin, which widens when Stephen removes his hand and eyes the slick precome glistening all over his palm and fingers with an unamused glare. “Just enjoying your predicament. Need a towel?”

Stephen scowls and absently wipes his hand on his bottoms, though a part of him wants to lick it off like usual. He actually really likes the taste of precome, sharp and slightly sweet with an underlying tang, but that’s probably a bit too forward. He needs to really think about whether or not he _actually_ wants to risk asking for a relationship with this idiot, not practically proposition him by being seductive. Sure, it sounds great, but it’s not exactly the right move – he needs to really dissect the pros and cons before jumping into something with Tony, even just sex.

Throwing that thought in the back of his head to ponder later, he says flatly, “Alright, let’s debrief then, else we’ll be in bed all day.”

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Sounds good to me, though I might be murdered if I’ve missed a conference call. Pepper’s always threatening to skin me with a dull spoon if I miss another, and one day she’ll follow through, just you wait.”

“That would take far too long, and wouldn’t work very well anyway,” Stephen says absently, momentarily distracted at the sheer bizarreness of that statement.

“Eh, she’ll have fun trying,” Tony says airily. “Besides, it’s better than some of the alternatives she’s come up with over the years. But you’re right; let’s get this done before we lose too much more time talking around the subject. Any immediate thoughts, corrections, or...issues you’d like to bring up?”

Judging by the tone and slight pause, it’s clear that Tony expects Stephen to have an issue, but he just doesn’t. Other than the panic attack at the beginning from FRIDAY’s all-seeing eye and the near-hysterical disobedience before the sensory depravation due to that same AI possibly listening in, it had been brilliant – completely unpredictable, utterly delectable, deliciously painful, and absolutely fucking _good_. He’s not quite sure how to articulate all of that, but he attempts to anyway: “We should have talked about FRIDAY before we’d even started this arrangement. I hadn’t been thinking coherently when we had come to the table for negotiations, else I would’ve brought it up myself, and I spent the entire six months after that scene trying to forget that the scene had happened in the first place, same as I always do, so I hadn’t even bothered to overthink to the point of registering her. I might not have registered her this time either, if you hadn’t brought her up. Still, it’s done now, and I understand her parameters now so it shouldn’t be an issue in the future.”

Stephen pauses to think for a second, gathering his thoughts, and then continues honestly, “Other than that, it’s probably the best scene I’ve ever had. I’m not entirely cognisant as to why, though I have a few theories that I’ll need to think about more, but it was. I’ve never done most of the things you did to me, actually, so I was always off-balance, trying to predict what would happen next. I’ve never had that luxury before; most of my previous...well, the individuals before Dorian weren’t exactly varied with their Domination, pretty much rehashing the usual clichés in scenes in a rush to get to the main event, and Dorian stuck to a few tried-and-true methods that we’d pretty much gotten down to a science, which is probably why it usually took me days to go down.”

“Wait, did you just say _days?_” Tony says incredulously, jaw dropped and eyebrows arched high in shock.

Stephen waves his slightly sticky hand in a vague, blasé gesture. “Yes,” he answers shortly. “Dorian was the best I’d ever had, well, before _you_, but he wasn’t exactly the most inventive considering his heterosexuality and the limits he had in place with his wife. It always worked eventually, but ultimately, I always knew what to expect, even though the actual actions and activities and words would vary. It made it hard to get out of my head, especially since I’m so predisposed to fight going down in the first place.”

“Christ,” Tony says, dragging out the word and running his hand down his face. “I mean, I’ve never gone down myself, so I don’t really understand the mechanics of it outside of drugs which doesn’t give you much choice anyway, but I can’t even imagine how frustrating and painful that must’ve been.”

Stephen replies, “Well, as I said, we had it down to a science, so I got there eventually. Took ages to recover, but it was worth it, and he was good to me.”

Tony looks at him, deep eyes searching, before a small, almost hesitant smile begins quirking his lips. “I kind of want to make a wisecrack about being the best you’ve ever had, but...”

Stephen shrugs as best he can from his side position, the motion uncomfortable due to his lack of manoeuvrability and the sudden resurgence of throbbing pain in his back, and he grimaces a bit at the sensations even as his prick throbs wetly against his pelvis, still trapped in the waistband of his pyjamas. “Wouldn’t be unwarranted,” he says fairly, but before Tony can follow through on his teasing threat, he curiously asks, “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad,” Tony replies with slow blink. “I mean, you’re bruised like all hell from the leather flogger, and I did break skin, but it’s been disinfected and I know you’ll be fine. It’s not like we’re not used to patching up wounds at this point, be it from kinky activities or getting thrown off buildings.”

“I’ve never been thrown off a building,” Stephen feels compelled to mention, but again, he interrupts the quip that he can see forming on Tony’s mouth as he continues, “Now tell me what’s spooked you, because something has. You seem like you were expecting different answers.”

Tony hesitates, eyes flickering down to Stephen’s groin in an absent glance before he looks back up with a deep inhale. Stephen finds himself matching it, holding the breath in until they’re exhaling in unison, slow and measured, before Tony seems to steel himself. “Right,” he says, twisting his free hand into the bedding with preoccupied fingers, the nervous jitteriness practically radiating from his pores. “So during our first debrief, we had that conversation about...well, touching.”

Stephen blinks, because _oh_. Right. Well, that certainly explains Tony’s negative expectations.

Stephen swallows as Tony continues heavily, “I promised you that I wouldn’t touch you like that, and I did it anyway. I shouldn’t have, especially considering your history, and I am so so—”

“I asked for it,” Stephen interrupts, because he doesn’t want to hear an apology. He utterly and genuinely doesn’t. He doesn’t want Tony to feel like he’s failed, like he’s broken Stephen’s trust and limits, because Stephen _had_ asked, over and over again, had begged for it and had fallen apart in the most glorious way when Tony’d obliged. He can’t stomach the thought of Tony regretting something that good, something that had made him go down like a boulder in combination with everything else he’d done during the scene, especially since Stephen’s truly okay. He really, really is. He’s not in sub-drop after a scene for _literally the first time in his entire life_, and it’s indescribable how satisfied and airy he feels despite the weighty subject.

“You asked for something when you were practically out of your mind, Stephen,” Tony snaps, though there’s no anger directed at Stephen, only at himself. “You cannot be trusted to make logical decisions in that state, and it’s my job to read the situation and respond in a safe and sane manner, which I decidedly _didn’t_.”

Stephen abruptly sits up, suddenly furious at the self-flagellation going on, and demands flatly, “Do you honestly think, for a single fucking second, that I wouldn’t have safeworded if I felt even remotely triggered by anything?”

Tony pushes himself up as well, the unbuttoned dress shirt untangling itself from around his chest to flare out lightly, the arc reactor seeming brighter in the dimmed lighting of the bedroom they’re in. “You have a self-admitted history of _not_ safewording,” he states, words chopped and tight, and Stephen almost wants to throttle him.

Very softly, but with no less power, Stephen replies through the thudding heartbeat he can feel in his sore throat, “I admitted that I didn’t safeword with those men who assaulted me, because I’d been all but trained to feel like I deserved it, but that was _twenty-five years ago_. I had twenty-five years to be trained out of that, to understand that it wasn’t my fault and that I didn’t deserve it, and Dorian literally beat it into me that safewording is healthy and if someone didn’t respect it, I should rip their dick off with my fingernails. Which I am perfectly capable of doing even in the middle of a breakdown, because I’m the Sorcerer Supreme and I will banish anyone who _ever_ does that to me again straight to the Dark Dimension and let Dormammu deal with them.”

Stephen takes a deep breath, taking in the surprised eyes and the slightly open mouth on Tony’s handsome face, and finishes quietly, “I don’t think you understand how much I trust you, Tony. Yes, there will be moments where it’s too much, moments where lines are crossed for both of us, but at the end of the day, you need to understand that I trust you to _let_ me safeword if I need to, because I _know_ that you’ll honour them. I haven’t a single doubt in my mind about that. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tony swallows visibly, face paler than normal, and he nods, a short and choppy little jerk of his head. Stephen deflates, feeling a bit overheated from lingering anger, and says tiredly, “You did nothing wrong. I know for a fact that I asked for you to...that I asked for more than what you gave me, but you used your instincts to do what you thought was best at that moment and you need to trust yourself. And me too – you need to trust me to let you know if something’s wrong, and I promise you that I will. You have my word on that.”

He pauses for a second, swallowing despite his dry and aching throat, and adds, “Besides, I think I’ve already mentioned that this is the first time in my life I’ve not dropped after a scene. That was phenomenal, Tony. I _feel_ phenomenal. I didn’t know it could feel this way, that I could feel _satisfied_ from what I am and how it makes me feel. I’d be alarmed if I didn’t feel so damn good right now.”

“It’s supposed to be good,” Tony says, practically inaudible. He clears his throat and then suddenly reaches behind him, twisting his body and giving Stephen a good view of how his dark skin shifts and slides over delicious musculature, emphasising his hard-earnt strength.

Stephen doesn’t bother looking away from his chest, noticing the water bottle in Tony’s hands only because it’s in his direct line of vision, and he’s mesmerised by the sight of the blue glow through the water, rippling and twisting as Tony uncaps it and holds it out for Stephen to take. Stephen blinks a few times, tunnel vision dissipating as he fights for focus, and then reaches out with his shaking hands, taking it gratefully and swallowing down a few tentative gulps. It’s heaven down his raw throat, and when he’s done, he passes it back to Tony and rubs at the skin of his neck, his flagging prick fattening up once again at the delectable ache. He’s definitely bruised, and he wonders if he’s just in a delayed drop, and it’ll hit him when he’s away from Tony, pushed into astral projection so he can look at his bruised and aching body without a mirror. He is usually in sub-drop when he looks at the remnants of a scene, only amplifying the feeling of weakness and self-hatred because it’s starkly displayed on his body for anyone to see, and he wonders if it’ll be different, looking at the evidence of his submission with a clear, satisfied mind.

He wonders what it would feel like if he didn’t drop at all.

“Okay,” Tony says, snapping Stephen from his wandering thoughts and back into the present. “I’ll have to do some thinking myself, to see where I’m at with the idea, but—look, I told you before that I was more than happy to help you scratch that itch if you wanted to take back some of those horrible past experiences and create positive memories in their place. That hasn’t changed in the slightest.” Tony’s eyes sharpen, and then he voices Stephen’s thoughts almost verbatim: “But I don’t know if you’re going to go into a delayed drop, and that fucking terrifies me. Seeing you like you were when I walked into the workshop scared the living shit out of me, I’m not going to lie – it’s like I was looking at myself after Afghanistan, and I remember what it’s like to crash after sexual shit. It hits hard when it does, and I hope to God you stay satisfied, but I—” He stops, takes a deep breath, and then asks with a heavy frankness, “I know it’s a bit out of the norm of what you’re used to when you’re recovering, but would you be terribly opposed to...maybe hanging around the Tower for a few days, just so I can keep an eye on you?”

Stephen opens his mouth to reply (though he genuinely doesn’t know how to respond, completely taken aback by the request), but Tony rushes out, “I mean, I know that you’re used to recovering on your own, hell, _dropping_ on your own, and it doesn’t have to be anything like me hovering or anything. I just need to know that you’re alright, now or in the future, and I promise that I won’t smother you or anything. Fuck, I’m not asking to be attached to the hip or anything, just...having you close by just in case it does happen would be really—”

“Tony,” Stephen says flatly, and Tony’s mouth snaps shut, his jaw clenching. Perhaps he’s trying to keep the rest of his ramble inside, or maybe he’s upset about the interruption, but Stephen doesn’t care. He knows how to respond now, and he’s not about to let Tony’s mouth run away from him, especially if he can alleviate some of that anxiety. God only knows that Tony’s done so much for him along that same vein, and who knows, maybe the drop will be lessened by a periphery contact with his Dom like all of the well-adjusted submissives like to claim.

“I’m technically in recovery anyway,” Stephen explains with a small quirk of his lips, “so I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem. It’s not a secret that we’re friends, and you’ve got all the best digs. Beats being stuck in a single bed in Kamar-Taj, surrounded by apprentices and forced to eat broth and soft vegetables to protect my...what was it? Delicate stomach?”

“That’s cruel and unusual punishment if you ask me,” Tony quips, and the smile that’s blooming on his face knocks the breath clean out of Stephen, bright and pleased and oh-so-happy that it’s practically radiating. Fuck, but he’s _gorgeous_, and he’s always been a looker in Stephen’s opinion but it’s obscene how he just gets more breath-taking with age. Tony pushes himself up, looking so fucking edible in his low-riding pyjama bottoms and open dress shirt, hip bones sharp and cut around lean, corded muscle, salt and pepper hair tussled and falling into those bright, whisky-brown eyes, and holds out one of those strong hands, hands that have taken Stephen in their brutal but merciful hold and kept him safe. “Let’s get some greasy, viciously unhealthy take-out and binge watch B-rated zombie movies in protest.”

God, he wants him. He wants _all_ of him, every single bit of him, wants him everywhere and anywhere, all around him and inside him, and he’s fucked now, isn’t he? Completely, unexpectedly fucked, full of nothing but affection and friendship and arousal and need.

“Yes,” he manages, breathless and awed, and it feels like a vow.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, it's finally posted, darlings. It's only been a year, eh? Hopefully you won't have to wait until another Bang in 2020 for the next one lmao
> 
> Now I'm off to finish kinktober 2019 and start prep for the [Marvel Trumps Hate auction](https://www.marveltrumpshate.com/), for which I am offering my writing for charity. For updates on that, [check in with my tumblr](https://meshkol.tumblr.com/). I'll be posting updates and links under the #rowandoescharity tag.
> 
> On another note, 2bnallegory _also_ did another piece – of Tony! – that wasn't really part of this fic, but it's _so good_, everyone. [Go check out the post](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/marvel_bang_2019/works/20913983) to bestow all of the love and awe. <3
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed this fic, and that this isn't a horrible disappointment after the first instalment. _J’espère que vous avez apprécié la lecture! Merci beaucoup!_


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